


The Wicked Path of Destiny

by hogwartswitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Wings, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Dark, Dark Magic, Death, Demons, Dreams and Nightmares, Drugs, Eventual Happy Ending, Flying by the seat of my pants, Good and Evil, Grim Reapers, Hell, Hellhounds, Horns, Horror, Let's cram in all the tropes, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Masturbation, Mind Sex, Minor Character Death, Moving Tattoo(s), Orgasm, Personification of Death, Police, Prophecy, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sherlock is a bad-ass, Sherlock is also a precious gay flower, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Shinigami, Shower Sex, Tattoo!lock, Tattoos, Time Skips, Time Travel, Urban Fantasy, Violence, Wing!lock, Wings, Work In Progress, cop John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartswitch/pseuds/hogwartswitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To save the man he loves, Sherlock sacrifices his life to become the God of Death for eternity. He walks the earth in a new, monstrous form, but a part of him has always remained human.</p><p>John Watson has been touched by tragedy from his first breath. After losing all of his loved ones, he finds himself at the wrong end of a bullet.</p><p>A prophecy, an act of sacrifice, and an epic quest for redemption link their destinies irrevocably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: London, 1895

__

_(cover art by[MrsDeGoey](http://mrsdegoeyscreations.deviantart.com/))_

_Do not set foot on the path of the wicked, or walk in the way of evil men._

                                                                -- Proverbs 4:14

 

A mix of snow and rain fell from slate grey skies, turning the London streets into a mess of mud and biting at skin with icy teeth. The wind cut through clothing and left exposed skin red and chapped.

Sherlock Holmes hunched his shoulders in his big black coat and trudged through the mud, his shoes covered in the muck and mire of London. The tips of his ears burned with the icy cold and he yearned to be in his tiny flat with the fire crackling in the fireplace.

As he drew closer to his destination, his shoulder brushed up against a tall man striding in the opposite direction.

"Excuse me, sir!" He called, and received a tip of the hat from the retreating gentleman, whose clear blue eyes glinted from behind his spectacles.

"No trouble at all, " The stranger replied, smiling. His blonde beard and mustache were neatly trimmed close to his face and he had a hint of an accent that Sherlock couldn't quite place. "A good day to you!"

Sherlock nodded, then turned his back against another blast of wind and sprinted the last few meters to the door of his flat. He let himself in, shutting out the frigid air, and heaved a sigh of relief to feel a measure of warmth seeping into his bones.

"Victor?" He called, hanging his coat by the door.

Shuffling feet against the hard floors answered as Victor appeared at the doorway to their bedroom, his blonde curls sleep rumpled. Dark rings circled his sunken eyes and his skin was even paler than normal. Sherlock noted that he looked even thinner than he had the day before. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

"Still feeling poorly?" Sherlock asked, crossing the kitchen to the range to put a kettle on for tea.

"I can't seem to find the energy to do anything." Victor wheezed. He tottered into the kitchen, sinking into a chair at the table.

Sherlock sat across from him and took a pale, cold hand in his, rubbing it to impart some warmth. "Can't I call a doctor? You aren't getting better."

Victor brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed it softly. "I don't want to worry anyone."

"You worry me."

A ghost of a smile haunted Victor's mouth. "Tomorrow. If I'm not feeling better by tomorrow, you may call."

Resigned, Sherlock nodded, then rose to finish assembling the tea.

Sherlock startled awake, his heart pounding. Next to him, Victor coughed - the noise that had awakened Sherlock from his dream. He placed a hand on Victor's back; he could feel the bones jutting under the thin nightclothes. Victor's coughs ripped from his body forcibly as he struggled to catch his breath.

"What can I do?" Sherlock whispered frantically, rubbing Victor's back. Through the nightclothes, Sherlock could feel Victor's skin blazing hot.

A headshake in answer, the coughs not abating. Victor pressed a hand to his mouth as a particularly strong cough wracked his body. When he pulled it away, his hand was covered in a splash of crimson blood.

"Oh, God!" Sherlock cursed, scrambling off the bed and going to Victor's side. His lover's eyes were glassy and he clutched at his chest with a pained expression on his face. "Can you breathe?"

Victor shook his head, a new wave of coughing surging up from his chest. He grabbed at Sherlock's arm, smearing the sleeve of his nightclothes with blood, his fingers digging into Sherlock's skin in a silent, desperate plea.

"I'll go now...I'll get someone!" Sherlock tried to pull away.

"No!" Between coughs, Victor heaved out the word vehemently. "Stay!"

"But you need a doctor!"

Victor's eyes rolled back in his head and his grip on Sherlock's arms loosened, his hand falling back to the bed. The next round of coughs caught in his throat and his breathing abruptly stops.

"No!" Sherlock screamed, grabbing Victor's shoulders and shaking them violently. "Victor, please, breathe for me!"

Victor, a small smear of blood at the corner of his mouth, stared vacantly at the ceiling, his chest still and unmoving.

Tears rolled down Sherlock's face as he pawed at his lover's body, trying to coax him back to life. He pressed his forehead to Victor's chest, a sob building in his chest.

Outside the bedroom, the fire leapt to life and a tall figure appeared to grow from the shadows flickering on the walls. The figure stood at the door to the bedroom, observing Sherlock's distress.

"Perhaps I can help?" The stranger mused.

Sherlock bit back a sob and looked up, eyes wild. "Who--?!"

The man he had last seen on the streets of London, the man with the spectacles and close-cropped beard, stepped into the bedroom and looked around, his eyes absorbing every detail of the small, slightly shabby room. "I believe I might be of some assistance to you."

"My...friend." Sherlock returned his eyes to Victor. "He's dead."

"Yes, I think he is." The man withdrew a white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it delicately over his nose and mouth. "But what would you do to change that?"

Mouth agape, Sherlock stared at the man in confusion. "I don't understand."

"No, of course. Allow me to explain." The man spotted a chair near Sherlock and Victor's wardrobe and pulled it to the bedside, seating himself so he was facing Sherlock and Victor. "My name is Charles Augustus Magnussen and I believe I may be able to assist you. For a price, naturally."

Sherlock shifted his body so he could comfortable sit beside Victor and still face the stranger. "I still don't understand."

Magnussen's eyes sparkled behind the spectacles. "I am the guardian of Death, Mr. Holmes. Or rather, I oversee the Between. It's rather complicated, but suffice it to say that I control the flow of life and death as well as those who might meddle in those affairs."

"I'm supposed to believe this story?" Sherlock's voice grew hard. "Do you think I'm a fool?"

"No, quite the opposite, in fact. That's why I've come to offer you an opportunity. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am in need of a new God of Death. A grim reaper, if you will. In return for your servitude, I am prepared to offer you the life of your lover." Magnussen gestured to Victor's lifeless body. "He would live out a natural life."

"Let us pretend that I believe you. What would this 'servitude' entail?"

Magnussen leaned forward, resting elbows on his legs and steepling his hands beneath his chin. "You would become one of my creatures; a dark angel of death. You would collect souls and help them cross over to the Between."

"And Victor would be alive?"

"Yes."

"Would I be able to be with him?"

A slight hesitation. "No...." Magnussen's eyes turned shrewd. "You would be erased in this world, ceasing to exist. Victor would have no memory of you upon waking. He would remember his life without a trace of you in it."

Sherlock swallowed, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. "How long...?"

"You would be the God of Death until there was reason for you not to be. But I will warn you, the reason is normally that I am displeased."

"So I would be a grim reaper forever? In exchange for Victor's life."

"And if I refuse?"

"No harm done. I will leave and you will need to call a coroner."

Sherlock's face paled and he turned to look at Victor once more. "H-how do I....?"

Magnussen pulled out a small dagger with a wickedly sharp tip. He gently dragged it over his collar-bone, opening a line of bright red blood. "Simply feed from me and your transformation will begin."

A wave of disgust washed over Sherlock. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Of course. I'll leave, then?"

"No!" Sherlock jumped to his feet. "No...give me a moment."

He paced by the side of the bed, running his hands through his floppy black curls. His mind raced as he weighed his options. He would be sacrificing his life for an eternity of servitude. But what was his life without Victor in it? Whirling, he went to Magnussen's side and kneeled on the floor beside the chair. The man eyed him, a bemused smile on his face.

"I just... drink?" Sherlock asked, his fingers probing around the cut.

Magnussen nodded, angling his body so that Sherlock could reach him easier.

"Will it hurt?"

"I'm afraid it will be rather painful." Magnussen replied.

Sherlock blanched, but nodded his head. He squared his shoulders and bent to Magnussen's collar-bone. Pressing his lips to the crimson line, he sucked in a mouthful of hot, pumping blood. The taste of copper flooded his mouth as the blood flowed down his throat, his limbs catching fire. His shoulders began to itch with a warm prickle of heat. Pain bloomed behind his eyes, growing, until Sherlock broke away and sobbed in agony, his hands clutching his temples.

"Perhaps," Magnussen mused. "We should repair to somewhere with more room."

He snapped his fingers and they puffed out of existence, reappearing in a cavernous black room dominated by a large fireplace and a high-backed chair upholstered in crimson fabric.

The heat along his shoulders flared up and Sherlock arched his back, screaming. The pain in his head worsened and he opened his mouth to retch. His fingers stretched, lengthening into wicked claws. A curtain of red slammed down over his vision and Sherlock could feel his teeth elongating into fangs on either side of his mouth. His chest heaved and he let out a roar as the skin of his back broke open, shiny black wings emerging and unfurling above his body. His breaths were coming out in inhuman huffs, bouncing off the walls of the room and echoing up to the ceiling. He reached a shaking hand to his throbbing head. His clawed fingers brushed over his ears - now pointed - and came into contact with thick, curving horns that grew from the top of his head to curl around his ears. Tears flowed freely down his face as his fingers traced the ridges of the horns. In his chest, his heart beat a staccato rhythm, pumping faster and faster until Sherlock was sure it would burst.

"I'm dying!" He rasped, turning his face toward Magnussen, who now sat by the fireplace.

"Yes, you are." The man said, bemused. "It will be over soon."

His heart was growing, expanding. Sherlock knew it would soon die and he would be wholly a monster. A creature of darkness. He fixed a picture of Victor in his mind; Victor, as he looked when he was healthy. His wind-tossed curls and bright blue eyes. The way his smile stretched wide and his infectious laughter. His Victor, who touched him with soft caresses and placed gentle kisses on his lips. Always remember Victor.

Instead of exploding or dying, his heart great steady once again, the pain receding to a tolerable throb. He laid on the floor, wings stretched out above him, breath ragged from the ordeal. Magnussen rose and walked over to him, staring down, a look of surprise on his face.

"Fascinating." He whispered. "You have somehow managed to retain a small part of yourself as a human."

He bent down, placing a finger on Sherlock's chest. "Your heart... it should have died."

Sherlock, his vision still tinged with red, stared into Magnussen's eyes.

"No matter." Magnussen rose, dusting off his clothes. "The rest of you is all mine, and you'll be able to serve me either way."

He gestured to a large mirror in the corner of the room and Sherlock hauled himself to his feet painfully, stumbling to the mirror. The reflection confirmed what he already knew - he was a monster. Pale, marble skin, his hands tipped with red claws. His eyes glowing red and the small tips of fangs peeking from his crimson lips. The horns, deep scarlet, curved over slightly pointed ears. Sherlock choked back a sob as he reached up to run a finger across the tops of the enormous black wings that protruded from his back.

"Oh, it isn't so bad." Magnussen chuckled. "In time, you will learn to disguise parts of yourself until they are needed. It is not so bad, you see. And look what you got in return."

He held a hand out to the mirror and the surface rippled, showing the cold winter sun shining through the window of his flat. In the bedroom, Victor opened his eyes and smiled, rising for the day. He bustled about the kitchen, making breakfast and planning his day.

"Victor...." Sherlock moaned quietly.

"He will live a long, healthy life." Magnussen said. "Isn't that worth it?"

Casting sorrowful eyes to the floor, Sherlock nodded, accepting his new fate.


	2. The Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes his first soul and learns to control his new form. But the side of him that remains human grows lonely without companionship, so he breaks the rules and gets involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you all check out [the cover art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552338) MrsDegoey did for The Wicked Path of Destiny! It's amazing! And if you like her work, check out her DeviantArt account linked in the cover art!

 

  
_"Death was a living creature. Death was a man tormented by his past. Death was once a human."_  
\--S.K.N. Hammerstone

First, he was given his katana; a wickedly sharp blade forged in shadow and radiating in dark energy, which was used to separate soul from body as Sherlock ushered the dying to the Between and beyond.

His first soul was an old man, a long string of days behind him, his body only a vessel for a soul that was ready to begin the next adventure. When Sherlock left the Between, he was able to wear any face he wished. For this first time, he became a nurse with kind eyes who bent over the old man to check his vital signs. It was only at the moment he sliced through the tenuous thread of his soul that the man saw Sherlock's true form and gaped in a mixture of wonder and fear as he took his last breath. The pain hit Sherlock a half-step after, a molten hot lance stabbing him through the gut, the sick, twisting agony spreading through his body and sending Sherlock back to the Between, where he curled into a ball in the darkness and panted until the shockwaves faded. The old man's soul was gone, having passed through Sherlock and traveled beyond to wherever collected souls go afterwards. The flush of grey started at Sherlock's fingers first, his skin - still pink with life - slowly leeched of all color. With each soul he collected, the grey spread, up his wrists, to his elbows, until finally Sherlock's form in the Between was the color of a granite statue.

As one day became two and the days stacked up behind him, Sherlock learned to control his monstrous form. He learned he could banish his wings and let them take the form of a delicate wing tattoo stretched across his shoulders in black lines and whorls. He need only touch the tattoo, arms crossed over his chest to reach them, to call forth his wings again. He learned how to change his form in the real world; to wear the guise of a normal human being when he was amongst others. He mastered the art of shuttling from the Between to the world above, appearing anywhere he was needed. He learned to listen to the whispers of voices that now filled his head and told him of the souls that needed reaping. He could look at any human being and tell them the precise date of their death, as well as the cause. But mostly, Sherlock learned to be alone. He couldn't bear to be near Magnussen any longer than was required, nor did he interact with any of the minor demons and spirits who lurked in the shadows of the Between, plotting ways to work their thread of darkness into humankind. Instead, he carved out a spot for himself in the nothingness of the Between and, when he wasn't needed, he built a palace in his mind, placing each brick one by one. In his mind was a sprawling castle full of sunlit rooms and shelves of books where Sherlock stored all the knowledge he gathered. Time in the Between would stretch and warp until there seemed to be so much more of it than there was when he was living. He would spend hours inside his brain, paging through books, dancing in sunbeams, or just simply being still, letting the silence of his mind palace calm the chaos of his thoughts. On his best days, Sherlock would take down a mirror he kept in the library of his palace and, with one wish, watch Victor live out his second-chance life.

He watched the man he loved find someone new; Victor did not remember Sherlock to mourn him, so he slipped easily into a new relationship full of happy mornings and stolen kisses. Only at these times would Sherlock allow himself to cry over all he sacrificed to give Victor this life. On the floor of the library, he would let himself howl and scream as the mirror showed Victor uttering words of love to someone who was not Sherlock.

With each year that passed and every soul he took, Sherlock absorbed more knowledge of the world and the Between. He hoarded information, filing away facts in his library like a dragon hoarding gold. He soon learned that the pain he experienced with every reaping was not normal; he came to believe his heart, which remained human but did not grow old and sickly, was the reason he felt everything so keenly. Every other entity in the Between knew only one emotion - anger - and felt only malevolence. But Sherlock felt the sharp knife of humanity every time he took a soul. He soon grew weary of working under Magnussen's thumb and so he bent the rules whenever he could by spending time amongst humanity, observing the world as it grew and changed with the passing time.

The first time Sherlock interacted with a human being whose soul he was not there to reap was with Mrs. Hudson. The old woman ran a pub in London, not too far from where Sherlock had lived with Victor. She was half-blind and possessed an iron will, not accepting any nonsense from anyone. She and her husband shared a small flat above the pub and it was the husband who Sherlock was there to take when he arrived at the pub in the guise of a man looking for something to drink.

"Good day," he said, tipping his hat to Mrs. Hudson. "A pint, please? Only your best."

Mrs. Hudson squinted at him, taking in the appearance he'd chosen to wear. His suit was slightly shabby and worn at the elbows; his face told of a man who worked too hard for too little and got precious little sleep because of that. The old woman waved at the barkeep to serve Sherlock his pint.

"On the house." She commanded, nodding sharply when the barkeep looked hesitantly at her.

"You're too kind." Sherlock said, wrapping his fingers around the pint placed in front of him. He would not be able to drink it, of course - eating and drinking had been lost to him the moment he'd taken Magnussen's deal. But he would be able to cloud Mrs.Hudson's mind and make her believe he drank all of it.

She stumped to the spot just across from Sherlock and reached out a liver-spotted hand to pat his cheek. "I know someone who needs a little kindness when I see them."

Sherlock knew that she had lost a son in the Great War; he knew this because that was when he'd first glimpsed Mrs. Hudson's face in a brief flash of regret as he cut through her son's soul and ferried it to the other side. Her son had bore a slight resemblance to Sherlock as he'd looked as a human. Floppy curls, blue eyes, and a soft mouth that was easy to smile, which was the face Sherlock wore now, only older and more worn.

He fixed his clear blue gaze upon Mrs. Hudson's filmy eyes and, for the first time, bent a rule so hard that it snapped in two. "Your son loved you very much; in fact, you were the last person he thought of."

Stuttering back, her hand flying to cover her mouth, Mrs. Hudson's eyes immediately brimmed with tears. "Oh! Who...? How...?"

Sherlock reached and took a wrinkled hand in his, the thin skin feeling as fragile as paper beneath his touch. "Please forgive me for startling you, but I thought you'd want to know that."

Observing Sherlock with a shrewd look glinting in her eyes - seeing more than her limited sight allowed - Mrs. Hudson nodded once, quickly. Her tears gone, she firmed her mouth before replying. "I do thank you, sir. My boy was very special to me. He was my only one, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"I thought you might." She brushed the fingers of her free hand over Sherlock's arm, as if to test if he was really there. "Are you here for me today?"

"No." Sherlock's voice was sorrowful and he cast a meaningful glance at the ceiling. "I'm not."

"Oh." Realization hit her, her face falling. "Do you have to?"

"I'm afraid I do."

Mrs. Hudson nodded silently.

"I'm sorry."

Again those shrewd eyes that saw so much, even with her blindness, met Sherlock's. "Yes, I can see you are. May I say good-bye?"

Sherlock inclined his head, indulging her.

They both ascended the stairs and Sherlock stood out of the way as Mrs. Hudson fussed around her husband's bed and then sat and took his hand in hers. He closed his eyes and tuned out her heartfelt good-bye, preferring not to intrude on such a private moment.

Finally, Mrs. Hudson placed a soft kiss on her husband's forehead and looked over to Sherlock. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded. "You probably don't want to be here when I...."

"Yes, you're most likely right." Mrs. Hudson stood and dusted off her dress. "I have to get back to business, anyway. Will I see you again?"

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Well, you will at least one more time."

Mrs. Hudson narrowed her eyes again. "I won't put up with sassy remarks like that, young man. No matter who you might be."

Sobering, Sherlock bowed his head. "Apologies, again. I will try to visit from time to time if that would be amenable to you?"

"Just so." She patted his cheek, then surprised him by dropping a motherly kiss on it. "I'll leave you to your work, then."

After she left the room, Sherlock drew his sword, feeling the shadows gather tightly inside of his stomach. He leaned down and placed the sword to the thread of life that connected the soul of Mrs. Hudson's husband to his body. As he sliced the blade through the thin string and the life wooshed out of Mr. Hudson, his wings extended above him and red descended over his vision. He could feel the tightening of his skin and the lengthening of his canines; claws now gripped his sword. Mr. Hudson's eyes flew open and they met Sherlock's scarlet stare. He gasped, pushing the last of the life from his mouth, and Sherlock felt the soul pass through him, flashes of memory from Mr. Hudson's life playing through his mind for an instant as the waves of sharp pain rolled through Sherlock's body.

Just like that, it was over. Another soul collected, his job done. Sherlock willed his form back to human and descended the stairs, tipping his hat good-bye to Mrs. Hudson, who remained stoic as she watched Sherlock leave the pub. Had she watched him walk down the street, she would have seen him slip between a shadow in an alley and disappear.

Even though he knew the exact day and time that Victor was meant to die, Sherlock still felt a small shock of emotion when that day arrived.

In the real world, where time passed as it should - in orderly ticks of the clock - it was a Sunday. The earth had taken fifty trips around the sun since Sherlock had traded his life for Victor's. His lover had lived a long, full life marked with the love of another man and so much laughter. The man he'd fallen in love with after Sherlock had died a handful of years before and now Victor lived alone, cared for by a private nurse, content to sit in his garden and read his books.

For this visit, Sherlock made himself look like he had in life. He dressed himself in the clothes he'd been wearing when he and Victor first laid eyes on each other. He entered the garden where Victor dozed in his wheelchair, a ridiculously floppy hat shielding his face from the sun.

When Sherlock touched Victor's shoulder, he imparted every memory of their life together back to him. Victor jolted awake, turning to look at Sherlock, his memories returning in an instant. Victor grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed tightly, as though holding him to the spot so he couldn't leave again.

"Well, old friend." Victor's voice was dry and papery with only a remnant of the youthful vigor Sherlock remembered. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

Sherlock knelt, a soft smile playing at his lips, and ran his free hand down Victor's cheek. "Hello, my love."

"You still look the same." Victor said in wonder, tracing a finger across Sherlock's temple. "How do you do that?"

"Magic." Laughed Sherlock.

"I didn't remember that you'd left me...." Victor wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Not until this moment. How did I forget you?"

"Shhh." Sherlock brought Victor's hand to his mouth and kissed it softly. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"You came back to me too late." Victor's blue eyes filled with tears and his voice quavered. "I'm all worn out now."

Sherlock leaned in to kiss Victor's fragile cheek. "You still look like my Victor to me."

Reaching out to stroke Sherlock's curls, Victor smiled sadly. "Why now? Why did you come back to me when I'm so old?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed, the pain already gathering in his broken heart. "I came to be with you at the end."

Understanding flooded Victor's face. "Oh," he gasped. "Then you're just a figment of my imagination."

Knowing it was easier this way, Sherlock nodded. "Yes, my love."

"That's good then. I'm ready. There's nothing left for me here."

Brushing one last kiss across Victor's mouth, he drew his sword and whispered, "Close your eyes, love. Close your eyes and think of me as I was the first day we met."

He drew the sword across Victor's soul and felt the snap of thread as his wings unfurled. His heart throbbed painfully and then a wave of agony crashed over Sherlock, flooding all his senses. It was the worst pain he had felt so far and accompanying that was the absolute desolation of loneliness as the only man he'd ever loved faded from life and crossed into the unknown.

As Victor's soul dissipated, Sherlock slumped to the ground and sobbed bitterly, mourning the loss to his very core. Hot tears fell upon his palms and Sherlock felt his skin prickle and tingle. As he opened his eyes and looked at his hands in shock, he watched delicate black lines emerge and twist themselves into curves and spikes, until both palms were etched with twin sun tattoos made of black, swirling lines. The tattoos felt hot and grew even hotter when Sherlock pressed his palms together. He felt power grow in his palms and immediately pulled them apart, not wanting to test what these new tattoos might do. He would experiment later in a safe room in his mind palace, where it wouldn't matter what happened.

Something like this had never happened when Sherlock took a soul, and he pondered what it could mean. Filing the curiosity away in his mind palace for later, Sherlock wiped the last of his tears from his eyes and rose. He made sure Victor's hat still shielded his skin and gently brushed a hand over his eyes to close them. Pressing two fingers to his lips, Sherlock then placed the fingers to Victor's lips, saying one final farewell to his lover.

Closing his eyes and turning his face to the sky, Sherlock flapped his powerful wings and spun upwards, disappearing as he slipped into the Between.


	3. Providence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's power grows, Magnussen demands a favor, and a new life is ushered into the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous illustrations for this chapter were generously done by my fandom wife & dear friend, [Nicole DeGoey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsDeGoey/profile). She can be found on [DeviantArt](http://mrsdegoeyscreations.deviantart.com/), [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/mrsdegoeyscreations?ref=br_tf), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/FanWomenUnite), and [Tumblr](http://theglitterypotato.tumblr.com).

 

_ _

_"Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying."  
\--Jean Cocteau_

Sherlock heard the skittering of feet first, a scratching across the library floor as he sat in a leather chair, unwinding his thoughts and placing them in volumes on the shelves. Dragging one eye open, he spotted a dark imp with razor-sharp teeth lurking towards him with a hungry look in its eye; it must have slipped in with Sherlock's thoughts.

"Not in _my_ space." Sherlock murmured, a smile playing at his lips.

He unclasped the hands he had steepled under his chin, the power already gathering in his sun tattoos and warming the palms of his hands. With a lightning quick gesture, he aimed his palms at the imp, letting the growing power uncoil and shoot outwards, a bright burst of sunlight erupting from the tattoos. The beam of light hit the imp square in the face, reducing the creature to ash in seconds. Sherlock rubbed his hands together, the heat rapidly dissipating. When he'd first figured out how to use the tattoos against demonkind, he'd also learned that using them left him feeling drained and tired. Even though he'd only expended a small burst of light, he could feel a tiredness in his limbs that signaled the need for recovery. Normally he wouldn't have used one of his most powerful weapons against a tiny slip of an imp, but the creature had invaded Sherlock's sacred space.

"Worth it." He drawled, as he returned to sorting through his thoughts.

"You wished to see me, sir?" Sherlock materialized in Magnussen's study, the room where he'd transformed into a Death God so long ago.

Though most of the Between seemed to be filled with nothingness and darkness, Charles Magnussen has grown powerful enough to mold and shape his space in the Between to his comfort. Much like Sherlock built his mind palace, Magnussen concentrated his energy outside of himself and built a study where he spent most of his time overseeing his underlings.

Magnussen sat in his high-backed chair while Sherlock stood before him, body straight, hands clasped behind his back; his wings were in tattoo for convenience, and he wore a black cloak draped loosely over himself to ward off the chill that pervaded every corner of the Between.

"Ah, yes. Good boy...." Magnussen purred, a smile that didn't quite reach his blue eyes stretching across his face. "I have a gift for you."

"Sir?"

"You have worked exceedingly hard for me since we struck our deal. So many years... and no complaints."

Sherlock tipped his head in acknowledgement, but remained silent.

Twisting his wrist, Magnussen produced two small, silver daggers, the scabbards tipped in a glittering black stone. The blades were hidden in a silver scabbards with accents of black scrolling.

"Throwing knives. Forged in the fires of the Between, and infused with hellhound saliva, which - as you know - is poisonous. To both human _and_ demonkind." Magnussen extended his hand with the daggers to Sherlock.

"I...don't understand, sir. What am I to do with these? My work has no need for weapons." Sherlock took the daggers and ran his fingers over the hilt. He slipped one out of its scabbard and saw the blade was wickedly sharp, its surface covered in intricate swirl engravings.

"I find that I might need your assistance further." Magnussen cocked an eyebrow. "Some of my followers grow discontent. I hear mutterings about resisting my rule... I can't have that sort of thing continue."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to meet Magnussen's as an understanding dawned. "You want me....?"

"I want you to take care of a few individuals." Magnussen waved a hand and three names appeared in Sherlock's mind; he knew them to be three of Magnussen's servants.

"When?" Sherlock's throat had gone dry.

"As quickly as possible, I would think."

"And what of the others?" Sherlock didn't often mingle with the demonic and ghostly creatures that lurked throughout the Between, but he knew they were plentiful.

"Oh, I think if you do this at my bidding, the point will be made."

"Yes, Sir." A sick coil of guilt wrapped itself around Sherlock's heart, squeezing his chest. "I will, of course, endeavor to please you."

"I know you will." Magnussen's smile stretched wider. "You haven't disappointed me yet."

He would never forget the feeling of hot, black blood as it spilled over his hands, or the sound of demonic howls as he twisted the dagger deeper. Sherlock paced the floor of his mind palace, thoughts too chaotic to catalog. The poison-tipped daggers lay forgotten on the floor, covered in viscous ichor and emanating wisps of steam. The deed was done; three minor demons dispatched to the beyond. Sherlock shuddered as he remembered how it felt for them to pass through him, their dark, icy touch invading his senses. The bodies had melted to sludge in his hands, a putrescent smell invading his nostrils.

As he paced, Sherlock shook his arms, tried to regain his calm. The guilt he felt at committing an act of violence - even one against a creature of darkness - throbbed painfully in his heart. Overcome, he sat down on the floor in the corner of his library, knees pulled to his chest, and buried his face in his arms. He didn't weep, but instead he focused on stilling his thoughts. He willed his heart to steady and he inhaled and exhaled deeply until he found his serenity. Leaning his head back, he discovered his library had dissolved and he now sat at the edge of a smooth lake in the middle of a forest grove. The grass felt warm beneath him and beams of sunlight arced through the leaves of the trees. Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes again, feeling the sun warm his face, the silence of the forest broken only by a soft breeze rustling the leaves.

Knowing he created this haven of quietude out of necessity, Sherlock fixed it in his mind palace, tucking it in a room on the ground floor. Finally feeling peaceful once again, Sherlock allowed himself to awaken from his palace and return to the Between. He tucked the daggers into a belt he wore slung across his black leggings-clad hips and then concentrated on the whispers in his mind to discover his next task.

Joanna Watson wanted curry. Though it was the middle of the night and torrents of rain sluiced from the sky, she begged her husband to go out and find an open curry shop.

"Are you out of your mind? No! It's the middle of the night!" He griped, his mood still sour from his frustrating work day.

Rubbing at the small of her back, Joanne pushed out her lip. "Please, Cal?"

Cal arched an eyebrow at Joanna, who stood before him in her pajamas, her pregnant stomach straining at one of his old t-shirts. "Really?"

"Baby says it's the only thing that will make him happy." Joanna teased.

Cal blew out a breath and heaved himself off the sofa. He could never resist Jo when she batted her eyelashes at him. "Okay, okay. The things I do for the woman I love."

Joanna giggled and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "Vindaloo? And some Samosas?"

"Whatever your ladyship commands." Cal patted his wife's stomach. "Take care of her while I'm gone, buddy."

Donning a jacket and grabbing an umbrella, Cal headed out into the rain. Jo stood by the window for a few moments and watched him disappear down the block towards their favorite curry take-away. Outside the rain continued to pound the sidewalks.

A sharp kick from the baby had Jo moving from the window and settling into a chair where she'd left a pile of blue yarn and knitting needles. The blanket she'd been knitting over the last 9 months was slightly lopsided and the yarn had grown fuzzy from all the times she'd had to pull out stitches and try again. But the click of needles calmed her and she now took them up to resume.

Another kick, this time followed by a sharp cramp. Joanna gasped, her hand flying to her stomach. The pain faded for a moment, only to return again, stronger.

"Lousy timing!" Joanna gasped, struggling to stand. The contractions continued to hit, each one a little closer together. Then she felt a trickle of liquid run down her leg and she groaned. "Damn."

Though Cal would be back shortly, Joanna felt she couldn't wait. Struggling into a coat and huffing out small breaths as the pain continued unabated, she went out into the rain and followed the path her husband took.

She didn't see the dark figure separate itself from the shadows and glide soundlessly after her. But she _did_ see the headlights of the car barreling too fast down the street, hitting a puddle and skidding towards her. She scrambled to dodge out of the way, but her movements were too slow and the car caught her, tossing her body roughly into the bushes lining the sidewalk.

The car idled for a few moments and the dark figure watched from a distance. Then the car backed up, turned itself, and drove off. Small whimpers of pain came from the bushes.

Sherlock turned away from the retreating car and drifted to the bushes. He knelt beside Joanna's body, his wings unfurling from their tattoos to shelter the injured woman from the rain. Sherlock willed the rest of his being to appear human as he picked up a pale hand that fluttered uselessly by Joanna's side.

"My baby." Joanna's words came out in small puffs of sound strained with agony. A trickle of blood dripped from her temple and the odd angle of her neck told Sherlock all he needed to know.

"I know." Sherlock murmured. He let go of her hand and let his touch drift to her stomach. Letting his sun tattoos gather warmth without loosing the power behind it, Sherlock sent a wave of heat through the woman's shivering body. Her whimpers turned into pants as another contraction rolled through her.

"Help... my baby." She gasped, her hand wrapping around Sherlock's wrist and squeezing painfully.

The thread connecting her soul grew thin and stretched; Sherlock knew he should draw his sword and sever it, but his eyes met Joanna's and he nodded once, quickly.

Closing his eyes and concentrating, Sherlock searched his mind palace for the knowledge he needed to help. "I'm going to check...." He said softly. "To see how far along you are."

"Yes." Joanna breathed. "It's okay. Please...."

He gently pulled her pajama pants and underwear down and felt, the light too dim for him to see anything. His hands brushed the crown of a head, the light coating of hair damp. "Ooh." He sighed.

"I can't...." A tear leaked from Joanna's eye. "I can't push. I don't know why I can't push."

"Shhh, it will be all right." Sherlock whispered. "I'll help."

Working on instinct, Sherlock laid a hand on her stomach again and gave a gentle push of power, her skin undulating under his hand. Joanna cried out, but Sherlock felt the baby start to emerge, centimeter by centimeter.

"It hurts!" Joanna sobbed.

"You're almost finished." Sherlock supported the baby as it was slowly pushed out, first the head, then the body, the umbilical cord trailing from Joanna. Sherlock took his hand from Joanna and held the baby angled down to drain any fluids from its lungs.

A moment of silence, and then it was broken by a gusty cry as the baby boy took his first breaths. Sherlock pressed the baby to his chest and rubbed the small body to warm it. Joanna's eyes were slits as she struggled to draw breath. A tired smile flashed across her face. "Thank... you...."

Cupping the crying baby's body in one hand, Sherlock drew his katana and, tears falling down his face, severed the thread connecting Joanna Watson's soul to her body. He felt a warm rush of air and smelled roses as she passed through him.

As his mother's soul left the earthly plane, the baby's cries silenced and it hiccupped once. Sherlock drew the baby away from his body and stared at the tiny life in his hands. Wide blue eyes blinked up at him from a wrinkled face and the baby's limbs flailed. Sherlock smiled, his eyes crinkling, and touched a finger to the baby's chest.

A warm glow sprang up at his touch; a golden thread looped itself around Sherlock's index finger. He jumped and pulled back, causing the glowing thread to wink out. But he could still feel it around his finger, tying him to the boy in his hands. Bewildered and confused, Sherlock laid the tiny, wriggling body in the crook of his mother's arms. When he stood up, he still felt the thread, but it didn't impede his movement. After one last, long stare at the baby, Sherlock turned to go. Before he disappeared, he glanced down the street. The figure of Cal Watson ambled towards them, his arms laden down with takeaway bags. As Sherlock faded into the Between and the world around him dimmed, he heard a cry of alarm, running footsteps, and an agonized, wordless scream.


	4. Augury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets a girl born in the world with a special purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous illustrations for this chapter were generously done by my fandom wife & dear friend, [Nicole DeGoey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsDeGoey/profile). She can be found on [DeviantArt](http://mrsdegoeyscreations.deviantart.com/), [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/mrsdegoeyscreations?ref=br_tf), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/FanWomenUnite), and [Tumblr](http://theglitterypotato.tumblr.com).

Molly Hooper was born on a winter's night with no moon. Her grandmother told her this made her special.

"You're meant for great things, poppet." She would say, patting Molly on a dimpled cheek.

Her first seizure happened when she was five; in the middle of Sunday school her vision went white and her brain crackled and fizzled like the sparklers on Guy Fawkes night. When her sight returned, worried faces of her classmates surrounded her, the Sunday school teacher clutching a phone to her ear, tears streaming down her face.

The doctors couldn't find anything wrong with her, though. Her parents took her for test after test, but each led to a baffled shrug and instructions to keep an eye on her.

Sometimes she said things when she had her episodes. When she woke from those spells, her mind would be filled with words that she didn't recognize as her own. She tried to get the grown-ups to listen, but they wouldn't. She would stomp her feet and yell; all that ever accomplished was a time-out and the usual raging headache that would come after her visions.

Molly begged her mum and dad to stay home that night when she was seven, her mind full of the vivid image of a car on its side and her mum covered in blood. They just patted her on the head and gave her a kiss, leaving her to stay home with her grandmother. Nana tried to distract her with games and cookies, but Molly spent the evening staring out the window, worriedly.

It rained the day they put her mum and dad in the ground. Nana stood behind her, holding an umbrella and resting a hand on Molly's shoulder.

After, life became quieter. Molly had fewer episodes and the visions stopped altogether. She learned to live normally and, after a time, happily. Her days filled with school, homework, friends, and time spent with her grandmother. Molly Hooper grew into an intelligent, soft-spoken young woman. She wore her chestnut hair long and preferred to keep make-up to a minimum, despite her friends' assurance that it would only accentuate her sun-kissed skin and deep brown eyes. Small-framed and pixie-ish, Molly nevertheless exuded a quiet strength and confidence that drew people to her, though she preferred to keep her circle of friends small and intimate. While other girls her age experimented with boys and went to parties, Molly was happiest when she was at home, helping her Nana in the kitchen, or curled up in the window seat with a book.

Nana told her that her visions were a blessing, even though they were scary. When they left, her Nana insisted they would come back.

"It's meant to be." She proclaimed. "You were born on a special night and you have a special purpose in this life."

Molly secretly hoped her Nana was wrong; she didn't miss the electrical crackle of her synapses misfiring, nor did she miss the words that would whisper the future in her ear. She longed to continue being normal, following a path of her own choosing and leaving the future unseen.

On her fifteenth birthday, the visions returned.

It was a crisp December day; a rare snow had fallen overnight and coated the ground in a light frosting of white. Molly woke to a pancake and strawberry breakfast and several wrapped packages containing trinkets her grandmother knew she would love. They planned to bake a cake together that afternoon and later, Molly would go out to the cinema with two of her friends.

The cake was to be a Victoria sandwich with raspberry jam and whipped cream. Molly whipped the cream while her grandmother fussed with the sponge cake layers. Molly didn't know anything was wrong until the knife her grandmother used to cut the cake layers clattered to the floor. Nana slumped forward on the counter, her hand clutching at her chest and clawing uselessly.

"Nana?!" Molly rushed to her grandmother's side, trying to prop the old woman up. "What is it? Is it your heart?"

Her grandmother's skin had gone pale and her nut-brown eyes watered as she stared helplessly at Molly, unable to speak. Her body stiffened with pain and her legs gave out from under her. Molly tightened her grip on her Nana's arms and helped steady her body and gently lower her to the floor. Quickly folding a spare apron into a makeshift pillow, Molly then grabbed the kitchen phone and dialed "999", reciting her address and phone number automatically to the voice that answered and asked what her emergency was. Her grandmother's breath was unsteady, her chest hitching arrhythmically. Molly sat on the kitchen floor, the front of her jumper covered in flour and splashes of cream, and clutched her grandmother's hand.

Sherlock sometimes found his tasks easier if he wore the face of a helper. He collected countless souls while under the guise of firemen, doctors, nurses, and paramedics. Only at the last moment would the dying see his true form and by then, the fear and wonder was an afterthought.

The young girl who answered the door of the brick terrace house looked lost and afraid. Sherlock smiled reassuringly and hoisted his paramedic kit on his shoulder.

"Where's your grandmother?" He asked, keeping his voice low and soothing. "I'm here to help."

The girl - Molly - led him to the kitchen where an old woman lay on the floor, struggling to draw breath. Sherlock could see her life's thread had grown thin and brittle; he could practically snap it without using his katana.

"That was good, laying her down like that." Sherlock said. "You did the right thing."

Molly pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to hold back her tears. Sherlock went through the motions of checking the old woman's vital signs.

"Could you bring me a blanket to make her more comfortable?" He asked, wanting to get Molly out of the room.

"S-sure." Molly turned and headed to the stairs.

As soon as she was gone, Sherlock drew his katana and leaned closer to the old woman. "I'm here to help." He repeated, looking deeply into the woman's eyes as his wings unfurled and he felt his horns poke from beneath his black curls. "It will only take a second and the pain will be over."

The old woman's eyes widened, then filled with understanding. She clutched at Sherlock's arm with one hand and squeezed her eyes shut. Sherlock brought the sword down, slicing through her tether, and felt the familiar rush of a long-lived life pass through him.

A gasp at the kitchen doorway alerted him that Molly had returned sooner than expected. She stood, staring wide-eyed at his wings. "Wh-what are you?"

Confused, as Molly shouldn't be able to see his true form unless he chose to reveal it, Sherlock cocked his head, studying the girl.

Molly shifted her gaze to her grandmother's body and let out a cry. "Nana! Is she...?"

"It was her time." Sherlock brought his wings close to his body, trying not to dominate the small space. "She's not in pain anymore."

"You... you're an angel?" Molly came closer, face full of curiosity rather than fear. She reached a shaky hand to touch Sherlock's wings and he ruffled them, stepping away before she could make contact.

"Not in the way you think of angels." He replied. "But I help souls move on."

Molly nodded. "Are you really a paramedic?"

"Only sometimes." Sherlock allowed himself to relax and smile; this girl and her fearless attitude amused him.

"What am I going to do now that she's gone?" Molly looked back at her grandmother's body and her face crumpled, the tears finally falling. "I'm all alone now."

Sherlock felt panic rise in his chest; he didn't know how to cope with a fifteen-year-old's tears or the words that would comfort her. "Er... I'm not...."

Molly cried harder and sunk into one of the kitchen chairs. Sherlock shifted from foot to foot and wondered if it was bad manners to simply wink out of existence.

It was as Sherlock was having this thought when Molly's body stiffened, her hands falling to her side. Her eyes snapped wide and clouded with milky white swirls. Her body shook uncontrollably as the seizure took hold. Sherlock glided to Molly's side, unsure of what was happening. It wasn't her time to die, nor was her thread thin enough for him to slice through. Just the opposite, in fact - her whole body glowed and pulsed with more life than he saw in most human beings.

The minute Sherlock was close enough, Molly's body stopped shaking and her hands flew out to clamp onto his arms painfully. A ghostly wind blew through the kitchen, blowing back Molly's hair, the strands writhing and undulating behind her head. Her eyes still glowed with unearthly white light that stared at nothing and everything.

Her mouth opened stiffly and a voice emerged that was not her own. It sounded like multiple voices in unison, both masculine and feminine, and it echoed and filled Sherlock's ears until the words were all that he could hear.

"The curse will descend when darkness meets light. The sacrifice, once made, sets time to run. Death walks where love is found. Life's blood sets right what once was wrong."

The last word uttered, Molly's eyes cleared and the wind died down. Sucking in a breath, Molly slumped back in her chair, her hands falling to rest on her lap. Blinking a few times, she met Sherlock's worried stare.

"Oh." She gasped, bringing a hand to her head and wincing. "Did I have one of my episodes? Ow, my head...."

"You... said some things...." Sherlock's heart pounded, unfamiliar with the feeling of not knowing what was happening.

"I do that sometimes." Molly said softly. "It's been a long time, but I do that. Did it mean anything to you?"

"No, but it was... odd."

"Do you remember it? Can you write it down? Sometimes I like to puzzle out what my visions might mean."

"You've done this a lot?"

Molly wrinkled her nose. "Not a lot. A few times. Mostly my episodes are just the seizures. But sometimes I say things and they come true."

Sherlock's eyes sharpened. "Prophecies?"

"Maybe...." Molly chewed her lip. "I've never really thought about it. Here, let me get some paper and a pen."

She got up a little shakily and fetched a notepad that was next to the phone. "Can you write it down?"

Sherlock took the pen and paper and scribbled down the words Molly had spoken to him, then handed it back to her. Molly scanned the words quickly. "This is gibberish."

"Perhaps." Sherlock said. "Or perhaps it's a prophecy."

"About what?"

"I don't know." Murmured Sherlock. "That's an unusual feeling."

"Don't think much of yourself, eh?" Molly laughed, then her face grew serious. "Look... I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. Do I call someone to take care of....?" She looked pointedly at her grandmother's body.

Stirred from his reverie, Sherlock remembered why he was there. "Yes, you'll want to call '999' again. I'm afraid I was never here."

Molly nodded. "Right. And then what? I'm just on my own to take care of myself?"

Sherlock contemplated Molly, impressed with her matter-of-factness. Should he bend more rules? Get involved? _Of course._

Snapping his fingers, Sherlock produced a business card. "Over the years I've encountered a handful of people who are... useful to me. This is one of them."

Molly took the card, reading the name aloud. "Father Wiggins? A priest? But... I'm not Catholic."

"No, but you are in need of help _and_ you're special."

Her eyes flew to Sherlock's. "Nana always said I was special, too."

"She was right. I'm not sure how exactly, but we were obviously meant to meet each other."

"So... this priest? What'll he do for me?"

"Take you in, get you the education you need. Access to resources that will help you understand your visions."

Molly nodded. "And you?"

Sherlock observed her for a moment. "I'll visit when I can. As long as you promise to help me puzzle out that riddle you told me."

Molly remained silent, clutching the card, looking sadly at her grandmother's body. Finally she swallowed, drew her body up straight, and nodded. "Of course. Anything you need."

"Just like that?"

"Well...." A soft smile stole across her face. "It's not every day one makes friends with an angel."

"I'm not--"

"Hush." Molly held up a hand to silence him. "Let me have my happy thoughts."

Cowed, Sherlock nodded. "I've got to go. You'll call Father Wiggins?"

"I will. I promise." Molly leaned forward suddenly and caught Sherlock's hand in her own smaller one. "Please be careful. I don't know what that... prophecy... or whatever it is means. But I feel like you need to be careful."

Sherlock nodded, squeezed Molly's hand once, then slipped backwards into the space between the world and not the world, winking out of sight and returning to the Between.

Standing in the dark, the creatures of the underworld rustling around him, Sherlock rubbed at the sudden goose pimples that covered his flesh underneath his cloak. _It's not every day someone tells the God of Death to be careful._ He mused to himself. Sherlock shook off the feeling of unease and slunk into the darkness, planning to retreat to his mind palace and process what had just happened.


	5. Lamentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson's life is, once again, touched by Death.

 

  
_"Our destiny is frequently met in the paths that we take to avoid it."_  
\- - Jean de la Fontaine

Curled up like a cat in his mind palace chair, Sherlock craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the tattoo that had formed the night he'd helped Joanna Watson deliver her baby. He'd felt the prickling of the new tattoo soon after that night and had examined his neck in the mirror. The tattoo was a simple lock with black wisps of smoke wrapped around it; though Sherlock poked and prodded the new tattoo, he'd yet to discover any power associated with it. Now, he rubbed his left wrist, which still tingled and burned where a tattoo appeared shortly after he met Molly Hooper. A black compass rose tattoo had faded slowly to the surface of his skin, the directional arrows bleeding through first, followed by the N, S, E, and W, until the tattoo was complete. He laid his hand over the compass and concentrated, plucking at the threads of power that swirled around him, trying to test whether this tattoo held any sort of purpose. His world lurched a half-step, then caught up with itself. Sighing, Sherlock shook out his hands and decided to give his experimenting a rest. Perhaps the powers he possessed with his wing and sun tattoos were only a fluke and these new tattoos were simply visual reminders of important moments.

Returning his memory back to the night Joanna Watson died, Sherlock felt the sharp tug that was a reminder of the golden thread still wrapped invisibly around his heart. If he concentrated, he could almost grab it with his hands, tug on it. The thread was thicker now that time had passed. How many years gone by since that night? Sherlock found he lost track of time easily in the Between. The passing seconds ebbed and flowed, sometimes fast, sometimes slowly. Sherlock could blink and an entire lifetime would pass; at other times, moments crystallized in amber. How many lifetimes had passed since Sherlock began his servitude? He had forgotten more time than could ever be remembered.

Growing maudlin with his train of thought, Sherlock rose from his chair. His mind palace dissolved in smoke that he waved away, emerging into consciousness in the Between. The darkness, as always, echoed with the scrabbling and muttering of entities.

"If it isn't Death himself, come to take another soul?" A dark voice laced with smoke emerged from the shadows. The blackness of the Between swirled and writhed until it formed a pale face with dark, sunken eyes and a leering grin. "How many souls will it take to make up for the wrongs you've committed?"

The creature bared his teeth as Sherlock gathered power to himself, causing his body to loom over the demon. His wings stretched out to full length and Sherlock's red eyes glowed softly in warning. "Moriarty. Did I not tell you to keep your foul tongue to yourself?"

The minor demon had run afoul of Sherlock several times; he nursed a grudge for the power Sherlock held, power he felt should have been his instead. Moriarty hissed and drew back a few steps. "You think your secrets are safe, but I know. I know what poisonous daggers you wield."

"You ought to be careful before you accuse me of wrong-doing." Sherlock said, his voice lowering threateningly. "First you must ask for whom I wield those daggers."

"Our Lord would not ask you to do his dirty work." Moriarty spat. "He would do it himself."

"Indeed?"

A flicker of doubt crossed Moriarty's face. "Regardless, you are not welcome here. You are _not_ one of us."

Moriarty's eyes rested on Sherlock's chest and Sherlock felt his heart thump harder in response. "Whether I am accepted or not, I have my place here just as you have yours. You'd do well to remember that."

Hissing once more, Moriarty withdrew, fading back into the shadows. Sherlock's shoulders sagged in relief and he folded his wings close to his body. Magnussen had ordered silence regarding the vanquished demons, but obviously his acts had not been done entirely in secrecy. Though Magnussen hadn't ordered any further "favors", Sherlock knew he walked a thin line in the Between. Should the scales ever tip out of Magnussen's favor, Sherlock was sure he would be set upon and torn asunder by the creatures who lived in the darkness.

"Perhaps that would be a welcome relief." Sherlock murmured, allowing himself to feel the weight of decades upon his shoulders. "Perhaps I grow too old."

Casting aside the moment of personal grief, Sherlock closed his eyes and tuned in to the voices swirling in his head, searching for the next name that he must take. The voices grew louder, humming painfully in his skull, until one name stood out, echoing in his mind.

_Calloway Watson._

Eyes snapping open, Sherlock felt the golden thread wrapped around his heart twang painfully. Resting his hand on his chest, he willed his heart to steady. Calloway Watson, husband of Joanna Watson, had an appointment with Death.

Raucous laughter emerged from the bar first, followed by a group of men in various stages of drunken joy. At the center, John Watson grinned and tossed jokes back and forth with his new co-workers. At age 19, he'd just completed training with the Metropolitan Police and would start his new job after the weekend. He beamed proudly as his friend, Greg Lestrade, already a sergeant, clapped him on the back.

"Good on you, Watson!" Lestrade crowed. "Now you just need to catch up to me!"

The good-natured ribbing continued as they all ambled down the street. Eventually, the party broke up as they each headed in the direction of home, or to get a cab. John bid Lestrade good-bye as he reached the bus station just in time to catch the last bus home. He hoped his dad would still be awake, so he could show him the badge he'd been issued that day.

As he boarded the bus, John felt a chill run up his back. Shivering slightly, he zipped his jacket up to his chin and rushed to get out of the cold night air.

The house was dark as John came up the walk. _Guess I'll have to show dad the badge tomorrow._ He thought. Inserting his key in the lock, John let himself inside and quietly shed his jacket. Silence greeted him, but for the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Upstairs, he heard one of the floorboards creak once.

 _Maybe he's awake after all?_ John wondered to himself. He took the stairs, taking care to keep quiet in case his dad really was asleep. At the end of the hall, he eased open his dad's bedroom door and peeked in.

Instead of being greeted by his father's sleeping form, John found himself staring at an impossible sight; a dark form in a black cloak hunched over his father, a glinting silver sword clutched in one of his hands. Dark, voluminous wings stretched out from the creature's back, filling the room. Pale skin glowed in the moonlight leaking through the bedroom window and dark curls failed to hide the crimson horns that curled from the skull of the creatures.

"What the f---" John whispered.

The creature jolted, face turning up to see John. Blood-red eyes connected with his and John felt his throat go dry and a thrum start in his belly as he felt a sharp tug in the air. The creature bared sharp teeth at him, a mixture of sadness and fear etched across his face.

The room lit up as a shining golden thread became visible, emerging from John's chest and stretching to the creature's chest. They both stared, stunned, as the thread of light vibrated and pulsed. John felt the pressure inside him build higher and higher until it crested like a wave over the sand. As his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the floor, his last sight was of the creature rushing forward to catch him. Then everything went dark and John floated into nothingness.

_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts._ Sherlock's thoughts pulsed in time to his throbbing heart. His chest ached for the first time in decades, reminding him that a part of him always remained in the human world. He caught the fainting boy in his arms, lowering his stocky body to the floor gently. Sherlock hadn't meant to be caught, had never wanted to see the baby he'd helped bring into a world of death and pain. Now, though, he could not help looking upon angular face framed by dirty blonde hair, trimmed in a close-cropped style. Long lashes brushed golden skin above a slightly rounded nose. His thin lips relaxed, his face peaceful in his unconscious state. Sherlock rested a palm against the boy's cheek briefly, then gathered his body up and carried him to his father's bedside. Pulling a nearby chair closer, Sherlock set John in it, allowing his body to lay across his father's chest. In the end, Cal Watson had died peacefully with only the briefest moment of pain as the heart attack gripped him. As his soul passed through Sherlock, his last thought had been of his son, John, as well as the hope of seeing his wife again. Sherlock didn't know where the souls he collected went after he was finished with his task, but he wished fervently that Cal and Joanna's souls would find each other.

After making sure John wouldn't fall from his chair, Sherlock made a move to leave, but paused. Staring hard at John, knowing that he would face the pain of loss and sorrow when he awakened, Sherlock felt a sharp tug once more at the golden thread. It thrummed higher.

 _Help him._ It seemed to say. _Help him._

"But how?" He whispered into the air.

No answer came, but Sherlock felt his hand go to his wings, plucking one perfect black feather from within the fold. He gently laid the feather on Cal Watson's chest where John would see it. Baffled at his own action and not quite sure how that would help John, Sherlock turned once more to leave. As he slid into the Between, he felt the thread squeeze his heart once more and the tingling, prickling sensation of a new tattoo forming spread down his arms.


	6. Safekeeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pays a visit to Molly; Moriarty pays a visit to Magnussen; And John has a date with destiny.

 

  
_"I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door."  
_ \--Hozier, _From Eden_

Molly didn't look up from her book when Sherlock appeared in her sparsely decorated room. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room while she idly turned a few more pages, then used a bookmark to keep her place and closed the covers softly. Turning to meet Sherlock's stare, she smiled.

"If it isn't my angel. Hello!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "I'm not an angel. Aren't you frightened to see me?"

"Should I be?" A worried look crossed her face. "Oh! You're not here for Father Wiggins, are you? Please don't say you are."

"No, it's not his time yet."

"Thank God." Molly relaxed again. "Well, then, why should I be frightened?"

"I'm a monster." Sherlock said simply. "And I cause death wherever I go."

"First of all," Molly said, holding up a finger to count off her points. "As far as I can tell, you don't cause death, you're there to witness it. Secondly, I don't see a monster when I look at you. And thirdly, if you'd wanted to hurt me, you would have done it seven years ago when we first met. So tell me, angel, why should I be afraid of you?"

"Are you just going to keep calling me an angel?"

"Unless you'd care to share your name. Or is that against the rules?"

Sherlock allowed himself to smile. "I think at this point it's too late to worry about breaking rules. In life, my name was Sherlock, and I've kept that name in death."

Molly nodded matter-of-factly. "Nice to formally meet you, Sherlock. Why don't you sit?"

She gestured to her neatly made bed, which - other than the chair she sat upon - was the only other piece of furniture in the room. Sherlock pondered her offer for a moment before tucking his wings close to his back and letting them melt into his skin as their tattoo form. Then he perched on the side of the bed, pulling one leg up to his chest and resting his chin on it.

"That's new." Molly nodded at the tattoos snaking down Sherlock's arms, a twist of smoky tendrils emerging from the mouth of glowing green skulls.

Reaching out a hand, she moved to touch the black lines of smoke and Sherlock, smiling, concentrated a tiny burst of power. The tip of one of the curls of smoke detached itself and wrapped lightly around her finger.

"Oh!" Molly jerked back, eyes wide, clutching her hand. The tattoo settled back into Sherlock's skin.

"Sorry... I didn't mean to scare you." Sherlock blushed and cast his eyes downward.

"No, you didn't... just... surprised. Can you control all those tendrils?"

Sherlock nodded. "I haven't tested their strength completely, but it seems I can use them as ropes, as well as weapons - they've got a powerful grip if I concentrate hard enough."

"And the skulls?"

Twisting his hand, Sherlock produced a glowing green skull in his hand, the skull at his shoulder gone. "Balefire." He said, simply. "Dangerous to humans, yes, but excruciatingly painful to demonic entities. Particularly hellhounds."

"Why do you think the tattoos keep appearing?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I have no idea. Not only do they appear, but two of them can now be used as weapons against my own kind. What does that mean?"

They lapsed into silence, both deep in thought.

"Did you visit for a reason?" Molly asked, breaking the quiet.

"Mostly to see how you fared."

"I'm well." Molly smiled warmly. "Father Wiggins is a kind man. He helps me learn how to control my gift."

"You don't mind living in such a simple place?" Sherlock indicated Molly's room, with its well-worn desk, sturdy bed, and a cross on the wall the only decoration.

"I've never been someone who needs a lot of 'stuff'." Molly answered. "Father Wiggins has a great library that help my studies - that's more important to me than a fancy room or a bunch of clothes."

"You're...happy?"

"Very much so. I miss my grandmother, of course... but she was old and it was her time. I know I'll see her again."

"Such strong faith for someone so young." Sherlock teased.

Molly laughed easily, her eyes sparkling. "Well, what do you expect for someone partly raised by a priest?"

Sherlock couldn't help but return her smile. "The Father does, indeed, lead by example."

"How did you meet him? When I told him of our meeting, he didn't seem surprised."

"I met him quite a long time ago, when he was a young man. He very selflessly took care of a friend of mine, after she was widowed. He was there when... when I came for her. He was one of the first of the living to watch me take someone's soul."

"Was he scared?" Molly asked, her eyes growing distant as she obviously replayed the day she first met Sherlock.

"On the contrary. He held my friend's hand while I allowed her soul to pass through me. I have great respect for someone who would do that, so I've kept watch over him ever since."

"I can't imagine Father Wiggins ever being a young man." Molly laughed softly. "But I understand why you respect him. He is the best person I know. He's going to help me find a job in the church, working with rare books. I think that position will make it easier."

Confused, Sherlock asked, "Easier? What do you mean?"

"Easier to research your prophecy, of course."

"You remember that?"

"I've dreamt about it every night since I met you." Molly said softly. "I believe that it will one day prove to be important."

Sherlock felt a chill run down his spine. "I never meant... that is, I don't want you to devote your life to... _me_."

"I don't really think of it like that." Molly said, her gaze unwavering. "I know I was given a gift when I was born. And I also know that we were meant to meet; that I am meant to help you. I just don't know what the prophecy means... yet. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't think your tattoos have something to do with it all."

Sherlock rose to his feet. "I thank you, then, Miss Molly Hooper. It appears that _I_ am the one who has a guardian angel."

Molly offered him a shy smile. "Take care, Sherlock. And come visit me from time to time? So I can pass on anything I've learned?"

Nodding, Sherlock slipped back into the Between, disappearing from Molly's bedroom with barely a shimmer of the air.

Charles Magnussen sat in front of his fireplace, casting his mind over the Between, surveying the machinations of the entities within and ensuring the dark energy they produced continued to flow steadily and feed his source of power. He made note of any words uttered against his rule, ticking off names in his head to eliminate. He became so absorbed in his inner wanderings that it wasn't until a voice spoke up behind him that he realized he wasn't alone in his space.

"My Lord."

Turning his head to cast his gaze into the shadows, Charles watched as two of his underlings slipped into his space.

"Moriarty." He said, voice cool and dry. "And Mary."

The two demons both kneeled in deference, Moriarty looking up at Magnussen. "My Lord, I come to you with some concerns about the way business is being conducted in the Between."

"Indeed?" Magnussen quirked an eyebrow, but did not speak further.

"Your most trusted assistant... how closely do you watch him?"

"Sherlock?" Magnussen's voice sharpened. "How is he any of your concern?"

Bowing his head and kneeling lower, almost scraping the ground, Moriarty apologized. "No concern, My Lord. None. I was just.... curious."

"And what is it you think Sherlock is doing that is cause for worry?"

"I wonder...." Moriarty drawled, exchanging a sly look with Mary, who kneeled silently, a smug smile curling across her face. "Where he spends his time when he is not carrying out his duties?"

"It is no care of mine." Magnussen waved a hand dismissively.

"Of course, of course. I only... wondered. If he could be trusted, that is."

"Sherlock, as you said, is my closest.. my right-hand. I trust him implicitly." Magnussen snapped, a cold fire glowing behind his reptilian eyes.

Sensing his opportunity fading, Moriarty bowed low once more before standing up. "Ignore my concern, then, My Lord. For surely you know better than I, your lowly servant."

"We only have your best interest in mind." Mary purred softly, rising to her feet.

Magnussen regarded the pair of them, thoughts shifting like gears in his mind. Finally, he nodded in dismissal. "Consider this a reassurance, then... and put it out of your minds."

Fading back into the shadows, Moriarty and Mary left, leaving Magnussen to return to his fireplace, the seed of doubt firmly planted.

John's breath puffed out as he jogged down the dirt path of the park, his sweat-soaked t-shirt sticking to his skin. The day was a warm one for a jog, but he'd needed to escape the noise of the streets and let his mind wander. His evening shift would start in a couple of hours, but for now he took a moment to ground himself in the silence of the park.

Life after his father's death had continued; one year becoming two, then three, until seven years passed and John, now an Inspector with the Metropolitan police, didn't constantly feel the weight of grief at his father's absence. He'd devoted himself to working his way up in the ranks of the police force, specializing in drug enforcement, and spending as much time away from the house he'd shared with his father - the house that was now his alone.

Though he'd come to terms with his parent's deaths, John still talked to them sometimes, working out his occasional problems by imagining what they might say. The hallucination he'd had on the night his father died still visited him in dreams sometimes, the dark form twisting until it became a red-eyed monster murdering his father. John's therapist had explained the vision away as a severe reaction and shock to finding his father's body. John tried to accept that, most days, unless he thought about the wooden box he kept beneath his bed. An intricate triquetra carved into the lid, the box held pictures of his parents when they first met, as well as their wedding photo. He kept his mother's silver cross in the box, as well. And on top of that, the soot-black feather he'd found on his father's chest when he'd awakened after his faint. He'd not remembered pulling a chair to his father's bedside, but he found himself stretched across the stiffening body, the feather brushing the tips of his fingers. It smelled of ink and old books and was soft as velvet when he ran his fingers over the length. Touching the feather calmed John's thoughts and after particularly bad days, he'd often pull out the box and hold the feather in his hands, stroking the vane and barbs, until his mind settled. He couldn't say why the feather calmed him, or why he kept it. But it reminded him that something happened the night his father died - something more than just a heart attack. He constantly looked for signs of the creature he'd witnessed in his father's room, despite his therapist's assurances that the creature was wholly imagined. Though he hadn't witnessed the creature appearing again, he _had_ found other black feathers in unusual places. One appeared atop his parent's shared gravestone when he visited the cemetery. He found still another on the ground outside police headquarters the day he'd been promoted to inspector. The last time he'd found one, the feather had been clutched in the fingers of a dead junkie, body sprawled on the dirty floor of a crumbling complex of flats. Each time, John collected the feathers and deposited them in his box. The original feather grew worn and thin, some of the barbs breaking off, so he used the newer feathers to calm himself. He was not a man given to fancies or belief in the supernatural, but he'd accepted that whatever happened the night his father died was beyond his ability to explain.

As his feet pounded the earth, his mobile went off in his shorts pocket. Slowing to a walk, he fished it out and, noting the number of one of his workmates, pressed the button to accept the call.

"Lestrade?" He huffed into the phone. "Something wrong?"

"No, something right." Greg Lestrade crowed at the other end of the line. "We just got a break in the case - can you come in? This might start to move quickly now."

"Yeah, of course!" John's heart leapt in excitement. They'd been working this case for months, trying to ferret out a fellow cop who had been turned by one of the city's more powerful drug lords. "Give me 15 minutes, I'll be there."

Cutting his run short, John turned and headed back the way he'd come.

Standing in darkness, Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated, waiting for the whispers to offer up the next soul he should collect. The voices whipped around his mind in a frenzy, growing louder and louder, until a name became crystal clear:

 _John Watson_.


	7. Asunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock breaks the ultimate rule of death by saving a life.

The unmarked silver Ford Mondeo idled in the shadows of the near-empty parking garage. In the back, John listened as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade gave him the run-down of new information they'd discovered. Beside him, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan listened, as well, occasionally interjecting clarifications.

"So we caught Jeff on the phone with one Lucas's men, setting up this meeting. You know that big bust we did last month? He's planning to sell the evidence we seized back to Lucas."

"How can he possibly think he won't get caught?"

"This is Hope we're talking about, John. He's been clever this whole time, flying under the radar. The only reason we're catching this now is because you noticed something hinky about him."

John recalled when he'd volunteered to sit in as Jeff Hope's partner, after Hope's former partner had retired. It was a temporary position, a fact that - later - John was thankful about. Though he'd not witnessed any wrongdoings that day, he'd grown suspicious of some of the things Detective Hope had said, of the way he'd behaved around some of the suspects. John had gone to Lestrade after he'd finished his stint as Hope's partner and brought up his concerns. From there, they'd launched an investigation quietly. Tonight, he hoped they would blow everything wide open and take down not only a corrupt police detective, but also one of the biggest drug lords in London, Dominic Lucas.

"We stay hidden here." Lestrade instructed. "We've got the surveillance equipment, we'll just listen in. As soon as Jeff and Dom make the exchange, that's when I'll call in the back-up team and we'll get them surrounded."

John nodded and they settled in for the wait.

From under his hooded jacket, Sherlock gazed at the parked car in the shadows. He'd taken the form of a homeless man, thin body hidden in a threadbare hoodie. His heart thrummed insistently, the golden thread feeling tight around it. His eyes burned hotly and his mind raced over his choices of what to do.

 _Not John._ His thoughts insisted. _Not him. Anyone but him. Not after I've done so much to keep him safe._

He ducked his head back down, but kept his other senses alert as the first black car rolled slowly into the garage.

***

"This is it." Lestrade said, switching on the listening device. "Hush."

They watched as Dominic Lucas climbed smoothly out of his vehicle, followed by a burly bodyguard. Four more enormous men climbed out of the two other vehicles that rolled into the garage. Dom patted his jacket, which bulged with the gun he was carrying. Jeff climbed out of his own car and nodded, exchanging a greeting with the group. Then the negotiations began. Dominic flicked his hand to one of the bodyguards, who pulled out a briefcase and flashed a large amount of money stacked neatly inside. Hope opened his trunk and indicated the drugs he'd managed to smuggle from the evidence room. As Dom's men began unloading the drugs to their own vehicles and Jeff took the briefcase and offered a hand to Lucas to shake, Lestrade gave the signal.

"Go, go!" He snapped, pulling out his radio to call in the back-up team.

Pulling out his Glock 26, John slid smoothly from the backseat of the car and, following Sally, ran towards the gathered men.

"Police! Put your hands up!" He shouted, gun aimed.

Behind him, he dimly heard Lestrade swearing, the radio apparently jamming and back-up unable to be summoned. Chaos descended as Dominic Lucas and his men drew pistols and scattered to various areas of the parking garage before they could be stopped. Jeff Hope turned cold eyes to John and Sally and drew his own pistol, aiming it squarely at John.

"I wouldn't if I were you, Inspector Watson, Detective Sergeant Donovan." He held the gun steadily.

"Don't be stupid, Hope! You've got two guns aimed at you!"

"Yes, and you've got seven pointed at you, by my count."

"It doesn't have to be this way. Come peacefully and it'll be easier."

"Ah, so I'll only get, what, fifty years instead of life? Don't bother. I already have a life sentence."

Desperate to keep him talking so he could maneuver to a better position, John asked, "What do you mean?"

With one hand, Jeff Hope tapped his temple. "Aneurysm. In here. Could go at any second. No way to repair it."

"Why the money, then? Why put the drugs out on the streets?"

"You do what you can to provide for your family." Hope's eyes grew sad.

"I'm sorry, Jeff. I am." John's eyes flicked from side to side, trying to place Lucas and his men. Beside him, Sally was doing the same. He caught a glimpse of Lestrade, gun sweeping the area, to his other side.

"Sorry doesn't get me anywhere." Hope sneered.

"Please, just put down the gun and come in and we'll talk. We can work something out, surely?"

"No, Inspector Watson. I don't think we can."

Several things happened at once, then. John watched in horror as Jeff Hope turned the gun away from John and aimed it at his temple, his finger squeezing the trigger. Yelling wordlessly, he launched his stocky body towards Hope, dropping his own gun in the process. And from the side, one of Dominic Lucas's men stepped out of the shadows, gun flaring as it went off, bullet headed for John's heart.

Time seemed to slow, almost stop. A glowing thread of light emerged from John's chest, pulsing bright as the sun and causing the air to ripple with the waves of heat it threw off. From somewhere in the parking garage, a hooded figure hurtled towards John, vast wings spreading out behind him, eyes glowing red from beneath the hood.

Time caught up to itself as the figure slammed into John, pushing him out of the direct path of the bullet. Instead, the projectile seared through one of the creature's wings, causing it to yelp in pain, and then buried itself in John's shoulder, emerging out of the other side. John cried out as blood spurted from the wound. He clutched at the figure desperately as they rolled over the ground. The golden glow that connected them pulsed and throbbed, sending shockwaves through the air that knocked everyone in the garage off their feet.

"Keep hold of me and don't let go." A deep voice hissed in his ears.

And then the world blinked out and went dark. Wherever they were, a great howling rose up. Millions upon millions of voices rising angrily, shadows descending towards them.

"Close your eyes, John!" The creature yelled over the din. "Close them and hold tight to me!"

They shifted once more and John felt concrete underneath him. He opened his eyes to find the two of them huddling on the doorstep of a small country church. The creature holding him heaved pained breaths, his injured wing drooping uselessly at his side. John's own shoulder radiated pain with every slight movement.

"Who--?" He gasped.

The creature turned to him, meeting his eyes, and John realized with a jolt that this was the same creature who'd taken his father seven years before. Waves of emotion rolled over him as they stared at each other, transfixed. John's vision grew dim, then, and his body went limp as he passed out in Sherlock's arms.

Suddenly finding himself struggling with dead weight, Sherlock used the last dregs of his strength to stretch one arm up and ring church's door bell. Panting and trying not to let the darkness of unconsciousness claim him, Sherlock listened until he heard the slow shuffling of feet.

The door swung open, revealing the concerned face of Father Bill Wiggins, who cried out when he saw Sherlock on the ground with an unresponsive John Watson in his arms.

"Please!" Gasped Sherlock. "Help!"

Magnussen's fury burned hot one moment, cold as ice the next, as he paced across the floor of his den in the Between. Kneeling in front of him again were Moriarty and Mary.

"It seems." Magnussen hissed quietly, his words laced with steel. "That I was wrong to trust Sherlock. It seems that he has broken so many of my rules. Helped the living, rather than ushering the dead."

"Yes, sir." Moriarty was not stupid. He didn't gloat about being right, but instead supplicated himself in front of his master, in hopes of gaining the upper hand against Sherlock.

"He has set the prophecy in motion and brought the curse down upon himself." Magnussen brought a tightly closed fist down onto his palm to emphasize his words.

"If he is cursed," Mary mused. "Then could we just allow the curse to run its course?"

"Not with the allies he's managed to gather. Even now, he goes to the one who can help him with the prophecy. If he's allowed to end the curse, our world will be torn asunder."

"How can that possibly be? Death much go on or the living will suffer." Moriarty pointed out.

"Death will continue, but our kind will not." Magnussen growled. "Our kind, who live upon shadows and feast on the evils of man, will be blotted out in one swift move."

"Then we must stop him from breaking the curse."

"And how will we do that?"

"Allow us to help you, master." Moriarty smiled sycophantically at Magnussen. "Allow us to pursue him at every turn, sabotage his every move."

"You? You are not strong enough to reach him in the living world."

"No, but you know as well as I do that he won't be able to travel only in the living world. Allow us to fight him when he is traveling in the Other."

Magnussen stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Yes... yes, that might work."

"Perhaps..." Mary, feeling bold, suggested, "you might release the hellhounds to pursue him in the living world."

"Yes, I do believe that will be a prudent action." Magnussen agreed. "And I have something else in mind as well. Something that will make things particularly difficult for them in the living world."

"Sir?"

"A little... rearrangement of memories, shall we say? I think that very soon, Sherlock and John Watson will find themselves pursued by the police. You see, John Watson has committed a murder."

Laughing darkly, the three continued to spin their plot, setting their plans to work immediately.

"Did you see that?" Sally Donovan yelled. "Did you see what he did?"

Lestrade, gaping at the body of Jeff Hope, blood oozing on the pavement from the shot through his head. "He... shot him! Hope didn't even have a weapon and Watson shot him!"

"He must've been part of it, Greg." Sally insisted.

"I can't believe we didn't see it sooner." Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face. "Which direction did he go?"

"I..." Sally scrunched her face, searching her mind frantically. "I'm sorry, I guess I didn't see."

"It's okay. C'mon. I need to use your walkie to get the back-up team in. Mine jammed. We'll get forensics in to help clean up and then get an APB out for Watson. I... can't believe he had us all fooled."

Sally laid a hand on Greg's arm. "Don't beat yourself up, mate. These things happen. We'll find him, and when we do, you'll be the one to bring him down.


	8. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John find sanctuary.

"Quickly, quickly, bring him in!" Father Wiggins glanced outside, his eyes probing the darkness for anything that might be lurking.

He'd called Molly immediately when Sherlock appeared on the steps of the church. Now, Molly helped to carry John inside, half-supporting Sherlock, who looked like he was ready to collapse. Blood dripped onto the carpet from John's shoulder and Father Wiggins made a mental note to come back and clean it before it dried. He ushered them through the nave and to one of the side doors and led to a staircase. On the second floor were the living quarters, currently housing only Father Wiggins and Molly. The Father waved Molly towards one of the empty rooms and they laid John onto the bed, careful not to jostle his shoulder.

Sherlock slumped at the end of the bed and tried to remain conscious. He was breathing shallowly and his injured wing still drooped at his side.

"What do you need?" Molly asked, crouching in front of Sherlock and looking him in the eyes. "How can I help?"

Sherlock grimaced. "My wing... it needs to be patched up somehow until I can take a closer look at it. But John's more important. I think the bullet went through his shoulder, but the wound will need to be dressed.

Molly nodded. "We've got some first aid supplies here. I'll bring them to you - do you think you can do it? Or can you tell me how?"

"If you'll help me with my wing, I think I can help John." Sherlock hissed, the pain in his wing causing him to grit his teeth.

Molly rushed to gather supplies while Father Wiggins sat down in a chair by the wall and began praying softly, his fingers worrying at the beads of his rosary.

Sherlock could feel the golden thread that connected him to John. It felt thin and brittle, as though he could pluck at it and it would snap in two. He watched John's chest rise and fall with each labored breath he took. Closing his eyes, he allowed Father Wiggins's prayers to wash over them both, the words a balm to his fractured thoughts.

"Here, Sherlock." Molly returned, her arms full of supplies. "Tell me what to do with your wing?"

Breathing deep and trying to gather his strength, Sherlock lifted a hand to his wing and probed the wound. Gasping aloud when his fingertips brushed over the hole where the bullet went through, he paused and waited for the wave of dizziness to pass. "You'll need to--" Sherlock broke off, panting a couple of times, then resumed. "--wash the wound, then bandage it as well as you can. And I think you should maybe strap it down to my back. I don't think I can hide it in my tattoos as I normally could."

Sherlock struggled to remove his cloak and tunic so Molly could have unrestricted access to his wing. Stopping him with a touch, Molly helped him slide off both, then got to work. She washed out the wound with clean water an antiseptic, trying to ignore Sherlock's gasps of pain as she did. Then she gently wrapped a gauze bandage around the wing, taking care not to crush feathers. Finally, she used more gauze to pin the wing to Sherlock's back so that it wouldn't move.

"Better?" She asked, her hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock swallowed and wiped cold sweat from his brow. "I think so, yes. Thank you, Molly."

Her fingertips grazed the back of his neck as she ran them over the lock tattoo there. "You don't have any idea what this does?"

"No, it doesn't seem to do anything. Why?"

"Well, I was just wondering if it had anything to do with that." Molly pointed a finger to John's right hand, which rested on the bed with his wrist exposed. A dark scarlet birthmark spread over the skin in the shape of an old-fashioned key.

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat as he moved to brush his fingers over the birthmark.

"Don't!" Molly hissed, causing Sherlock to pull back his hand. "You don't know what it will do. Leave it for now."

Nodding, Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie. "Right. Let me address his wound first. We'll discuss theories later."

Maneuvering John's body so he was propped up on pillows, Sherlock moved closer to get a look at the bullet wound. Using scissors he cut away John's shirt to get to the wound underneath. It was a clean shot, in and out, and he hoped nothing had gotten damaged inside. He went through the same motions as Molly, washing the wound with water and antiseptic, then bandaged it with gauze. He felt John's forehead with his hand, then moved it to his neck to check his pulse. Now that the flow of blood had been staunched, his pulse was stronger. Sherlock felt the thread between them grow less brittle. It tugged at his heart as he looked down on the angelic face of a sleeping John Watson. The baby he'd helped bring into the world was no longer a child, but a young man. His honey-colored hair was trimmed short and currently mussed from their frenzied flight. A neat mustache on his upper lip made him look a few years older than he actually was. His face, in sleep, was peaceful and unlined, though Sherlock knew from past observation that his face was lined in a history of his smiles. His normally tanned skin looked paler from the loss of blood and Sherlock hoped he hadn't lost too much to recover on his own.

"Now what?" Molly asked quietly.

"Now we wait." Sherlock said wearily.

"And you? What will you do?"

Sherlock took stock of himself and realized something with a jolt. "I... think I need to sleep."

"Well, sure... that's not terribly surprising given your injuries. Why do you sound surprised?"

"Because I haven't needed to sleep in over 100 years."

Molly's mouth formed a slight "o" of shock. "What does it mean, then?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I don't know. I...." He stopped and concentrated, reaching for the voices that were always whispering in his head. But all he found was silence.

"I think I'm human." Sherlock whispered, a look of horror crossing his face.

Molly laughed incredulously. "Sherlock, you're sporting a massive pair of wings."

"I know, but... I don't know. Something's changed, Molly. I don't feel the same connection to the Between that I normally do. I would try crossing over, but when I did with John, something... happened. I don't think I'd make it back if I tried it now."

Molly's lips thinned with worry. "I won't pretend to be an expert on the subject, Sherlock, but I'll go look through some of my older books on death mythology and see if I can find answers. And I think, perhaps, this could have something to do with the prophecy. We'll talk later, okay?"

Sherlock nodded and Molly and Father Wiggins left the two of them alone in the room to rest. Sherlock closed his eyes and checked himself to see what else he could learn about his current circumstances. His heart - still presumably human - beat strong and steadily. His fangs still extended when he made the effort. His horns and claws wouldn't appear in the living world unless he was taking a human soul; ditto, his red eyes. His skin, however, was no longer grey, but instead was extremely pale, the color of moonlight. Sherlock's tattoos were still where they normally were, though he was too exhausted to test whether any of them still worked. Most noticeably, he was tired to his bones. Getting up and walking around the bed to the side with more space, Sherlock gingerly crawled in next to John, careful not to squash his wings, and nestled his body around John's, draping an arm over his stomach. Snuggling closer, Sherlock matched his breath to John's deep, even ones and soon, for the first time in over a century, fell asleep.

The room Sherlock was in was pitch black. The only light came from the weak moonlight leaking under a closed door. He didn't know how he'd come to be in the room, nor where the door led. Sherlock stood and bumped his legs against a solid shape. It was a bed; Sherlock ran his hands along the blankets and felt a human shape beneath it. Whoever was in the bed groaned, then wheezed.

"Sherlock?" The wavering voice that reached his ears caused Sherlock to stumble back, his hand coming up to catch the cry before it left his mouth.

Victor's voice came again, youthful, but ill. "Sherlock, is that you?"

Sherlock fumbled in the dark, his hand bumping against the bedside table. Scrabbling his fingers across the surface he connected with a candle and matches. Hands shaking, he lit a match and touched it to the wick of the candle. Sweeping the dim light in front of him.

Stretched on the bed before him, Victor's body was a sack of bones. His eyes sunken, his skin grey and flaking. His hair came out in clumps and his hands were gnarled claws that reached for Sherlock.

"Sherlock, why? Why did you do this to me?" Victor's voice wheezed out, his milky eyes staring wildly at Sherlock.

"N-no!" Sherlock cried, his eyes filling with tears. "I didn't! I saved you... I gave my life for you!"

"I'm dying and it's your fault!"

Sherlock stumbled back to Victor's side. He reached out a hand to comfort his lover and the skeletal claws clamped down on his wrist, squeezing tightly. Sherlock gasped at the pain and fell to his knees as Victor began to pull.

"If I'm dying." Hissed Victor. "You'll die with me. Bleed for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock watched in horror as blood bubbled around Victor's clenched hands. Victor's skin dissolved in a red tide, filling the room quickly with thick, pungent blood. Sherlock opened his mouth to scream and blood poured in, filling his lungs and stealing his breath. His world went red as he sank below the surface. His vision began to dim and---

Sherlock sat up, gasping, the coppery taste of blood still filling his mouth. The bedroom in the church was dim and quiet. Beside him, John Watson stirred, mumbling softly in his sleep. It took a few moments before Sherlock's heart stopped pounding in his chest, before the waves of panic subsided. His first time sleeping in 100 years and he'd been hit by the worst nightmare he'd ever experienced.

John stirred more, his eyelids fluttering. Sherlock got off the bed and walked around to the other side of the bed, closer to John. He pulled the chair Father Wiggins had sat in to the bedside and took a seat, reaching out and grasping one of John's hands in his.

More eyelid fluttering, then John's deep blue eyes opened and he stared foggily at Sherlock for a few moments, blinking in confusion. He shifted in the bed and winced when the pain in his shoulder caught him.

"Thirsty...." John rasped, and Sherlock got up and fetched a small glass of water from the attached bathroom.

"Here." He helped John take a few gulps of water, then sat the glass on the bedside table.

"You." John said, staring intently at Sherlock. "You're... I've seen you before."

"You have." Sherlock knew better than to try to deny it.

"You...killed my father."

"Not exactly." Sherlock smiled wryly. "And your name isn't Inigo Montoya."

A look of confusion crossed John's face as the wheels in his brain worked slowly to make the connection. "You're... making movie references at me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You live as long as I do and you end up seeing a few that stick in your mind."

John's gaze flicked over Sherlock's face, then focused on the bound wing at his back. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Currently a little holier than normal, but yes. It's a wing."

"So you're... what? An angel? A demon?"

"It's a bit of a long story."

John grimaced as his shoulder grabbed him again. "I don't seem to be going anywhere. And I think I have a right to know where I am and what's going on."

Sherlock sighed. "You're right. You do need to know. Promise you'll let me tell you the story without interruptions?"

"Sure. Promise you won't try to kill me like you did my dad?"

Sherlock laughed. "Oh, John Watson. If you only knew."

Starting at the beginning, with Victor, Sherlock related his story of sacrificing himself and the work that came after.

"So...." John said when Sherlock finished his tale. "You're there to witness death."

"Yes, precisely. The death would happen whether I was there or not, but the souls would not find any peace without me there to open the door."

John nodded. "You didn't kill my dad."

"No. Would it help to know his last thoughts were of you, and how much he loved you?"

A flash of sorrow crossed John's face and he drew a shuddering breath. "Um. Yeah, actually, that does help."

He met Sherlock's gaze once more. "You left the feather for me."

"I did."

"Why?"

"I... don't actually know."

"It was from your...." John nodded at Sherlock's wings and Sherlock dipped his head in assent. "You left the others?"

Another nod from Sherlock. "I've... observed you over the years."

"Why?"

Not wanting to divulge their full connection just yet, Sherlock shrugged. "Something to pass the time."

But John wasn't accepting that answer. "Why would a grim reaper be interested in someone living?"

Sherlock fell silent and John changed tactics, his mind working to connect the dots.

"Were you there for my mother?"

Sherlock's heart leapt and he felt the string between them tighten.

John's hand rested on his chest as he, too, felt the tug. "You were, weren't you? Dad always said he didn't know how mom had me on her own that night. You were there... did you... did you help her?"

Hesitantly, Sherlock reached for John's hand. When he touched it, the golden thread became visible, glowing between them. John stared at it in awe.

"She asked me to help." Sherlock whispered. "So I did. I was the first thing you saw when you came into the world. I was the first to hold you. And this--" Sherlock gestured to the glowing thread. "--appeared between us the moment I touched you."

"We've been connected somehow... all this time?" John asked in wonder.

Sherlock nodded.

"What does it mean?"

"I don't exactly know."

"And tonight? You came... why?" Before Sherlock could answer, John's eyes widened in horror as he came to the conclusion himself. "Was I supposed to die tonight?"

Sherlock looked away. "I couldn't do it, John. I've spent so many years watching over you. I couldn't take your soul tonight, couldn't stand by and watch...."

"What happens when you don't do what you're supposed to?"

"I don't know." Sherlock whispered. "But I already feel a change. I don't think... I don't know if I'm a god of death anymore. I don't even know what would happen if I tried to cross into the Between."

John grew quiet, trying to absorb the information being thrown at him. Sherlock let go of his hand, the glowing thread between them going invisible once more. John ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Where are we, anyway?"

"It's a church. I have friends here. I thought it would be the safest place until we knew the full extent of what happened."

"My partners? Are they okay?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, I wasn't able to see what happened. I was only concerned at getting you away."

"That's okay." John said quickly. After a pause, he whispered, "Thank you."

Sherlock's eyes flew up to meet John's. "I-- what?"

"Thank you. For saving my life tonight. And apparently when I was born, too."

"Oh...um... sure. You're welcome."

"Can I touch them?"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock wondered if this was how he would feel all the time when he was near John Watson, confused and ever-so-slightly off-kilter.

"Your wings. Can I touch them?"

"Uh... okay?" Sherlock, baffled, turned his body so his uninjured wing was closer to John. "This one okay? The other is still a little sore."

"Yeah, that's fine." John smiled.

He scooted slowly to his knees, gingerly holding his injured arm so he wouldn't jolt it. Then he moved to Sherlock's side and gently placed his hand on the edge of Sherlock's wings. Running his fingers slowly across the top curve, he smiled. "They're soft, like the one I have."

Shivering in pleasure, Sherlock smiled. "Well, they're one and the same."

John pushed his hand deeper into the feathers, careful not to hurt Sherlock. Then he pressed his face against the wing and inhaled. "Ink...and old books. Just like the ones you left me."

Sherlock felt the heat of desire curl in his stomach and tried to tamp it down.

John continued to pet his wings softly, almost unconsciously, his fingers stroking the soft barbs of each feather. His face was suddenly close to Sherlock's ear, his breath puffing out warmly as he murmured a question. "Why do you have so many tattoos?"

Momentarily speechless and overcome with the urge to turn around and press his lips against John's, Sherlock tried to calm his racing thoughts and focus on answering him instead. "I get them... every time I break the rules to help someone, I get a new one."

John sat back, removing his hand from Sherlock's wings and leaving Sherlock feeling bereft. "So... they just show up?"

"Mm-hmm. Some of them have special powers. I'm not sure if they do right now as I haven't re-built my strength to test it out."

"Did you get one when you helped me?"

Sherlock reached up to stroke the lock at the back of his neck. "This one showed up the night your mother died."

John drew close again, examining the intricate lock. "That's interesting... because I have..."

"A key birthmark." Sherlock finished his sentence. "I saw. Don't touch the tattoo yet? I don't know if there's a connection and I wouldn't want something to happen that we're not prepared to handle."

"Right. Smart idea."

"These formed when your father died." Sherlock stretched out his arms and showed off the smoky swirls and skulls on each one. "I'll show you what they do later, if I still have the ability."

"What about this time? You've saved me three times... do you have anything new?"

"No... not yet. I'm not sure why."

"Oh." John sat back, slightly disappointed.

"How's your shoulder?"

"Hurts." John pulled a face. "And I'm starving."

As if on cue, Sherlock's stomach grumbled loudly. "And so, it appears, am I. I think I know the way to Father Wiggins's kitchen. Shall I go find us something to eat?"

John nodded and Sherlock left the room, padding down the hall to the small kitchen Father Wiggins used. He had no idea what would happen if he ate, but he was suddenly ferociously hungry and didn't care what the consequences might be. Gathering sliced of bread and butter, squares of cheese and crackers, and a large handful of grapes, Sherlock returned to the room and laid the spread out on the bed. Returning to the collection of first aid supplies, he picked through them until he unearthed a bottle of painkillers.

"This might help." He brought a glass of water and a pill to John, who swallowed it down.

"What about you?"

"I have no idea if my system would handle a painkiller. I'm not human... at least not all of me."

"You know." John observed, his mouth full of bread and grapes. "My therapist would probably tell me that I've had a major break in reality and that none of this is happening."

"Do you believe that?" Sherlock nibbled at a square of cheese, savoring the first bite of human food he'd had since he'd been alive with Victor.

Chewing, John thought for a moment. "Nah. My shoulder hurts like hell, so it has to be real."

"And am I real?"

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "I haven't decided yet. But I also haven't decided if I care."

"Oh?"

"As far as scary, imaginary monsters go, I've seen worse in my dreams."

"I should probably be offended by that."

"Are you?"

"Not really." Sherlock allowed himself to smile and popped a few grapes in his mouth.

John smiled back, but his eyes were drooping.

"You should sleep some more. We'll have a lot of information to find out tomorrow morning." Sherlock said, clearing the food away."

"Will you stay with me?" John's voice was foggy with painkiller.

"Always." Sherlock whispered, climbing back into bed and letting John settle against his chest.

After a few minutes, they both drifted off into a blissfully dreamless sleep.


	9. Malediction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prophecy is explained.

When the first fingers of light crept through the curtains, Sherlock woke and disentangled himself from John, moving to sit in the chair and think about the events of the last twenty-four hours. He felt rested and whole once more, his strength returned. Idly, he tried to use his arm tattoos, concentrating his power. With a little more of a push, he finally made the swirls pop up from his arms and curls into a rope in the air. Breathing deeply, he let go and the tattoos settled back into his skin. The effort cost him, his strength evidently not as built up as he thought. But now he knew the tattoos still worked. Running fingers over his wing, he discovered his healing abilities were intact as well, as the wound on his wing was rapidly disappearing. He knew, however, that something about him had changed. Sherlock thought to the split second when he'd transported himself and John into the Between. The upheaval he felt, the gathering of dark forces, all prepared to leap upon him had he stayed longer than the brief moment of time. He felt the same as he always had, though, barring the new need for sleeping, eating, and... yes, apparently the need to empty his bladder as well. Rising, he padded to the bathroom and used the toilet, his mind full of questions as to why these changes were occurring while other aspects of himself remained the same.

Upon returning to the chair, he saw John sitting up in bed, his eyes blinking blearily in the dim light.

"What time is it?" John asked, his voice foggy.

"Early." Sherlock whispered. "You could probably sleep longer."

Shaking his head, John yawned. "I'm not tired anymore."

"Yes, I felt the same." Sherlock felt cautious around John in the light of day. Their night of trauma had fabricated a false sense of closeness that now seemed inappropriate. Though John fascinated him, he knew he should keep the man at arm's length until they learned precisely what was going on.

"I just realized something." John observed. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

Sherlock contemplated remaining mysterious, but knew that wasn't practical. "It's Sherlock."

"Sherlock." John rolled the name around in his mouth, familiarizing himself with the syllables. "Well, Sherlock, what do we do now?"

"As soon as Molly and Father Wiggins are awake, we will have to find out what happened after we left your crime scene last night. And there's the matter of the prophecy and what it might mean." Sherlock had told John about his first meeting with Molly and the trance she had fallen under.

"You really believe in those sorts of things?" John asked, wrinkling his nose.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "I am a god of Death who has walked the earth for over one hundred years and lives amongst demons. I don't think I have any right to be disbelieving of anything."

"Point." John smiled wryly.

The door creaked open and Molly stuck her head in. As soon as she saw Sherlock and John were awake, she shot a grim look at Sherlock. "I think you both need to come see something."

Father Wiggins had a seating area in his living quarters for when he needed to entertain visitors. On a small stand in one corner was an old TV set currently tuned in to the local news. John sat in a chair and Sherlock paced behind him, both of them focused on the report being read.

"...the public is cautioned to avoid confrontation with John Watson and the unknown suspect. Both are armed and dangerous. Again, if anyone has any information leading to the arrest of John Watson in connection to the murder of Detective Jeff Hope, please call our tip line listed at the bottom of the screen."

A picture of John in his uniform taken shortly after he was promoted to Inspector flashed on the screen. Beside it was a blurry picture of Sherlock in a hoodie.

"That's not what happened!" John burst out, his forehead wrinkled. "How can they say I did that? There were witnesses! He killed himself!"

"Someone's changed the timeline." Sherlock murmured. "Someone's messed with memories."

"But who would do that?" Molly asked, her arms folded.

"I suspect I know." Sherlock said, his eyes hardening. "There is only one person who would be displeased by my breaking the rules. I believe this is his way of making things difficult for us."

"Difficult?" John spluttered, jumping to his feet. "Difficult? Difficult is a puzzle. Difficult is a test! This is a murder charge, Sherlock. I'm wanted for murdering a cop! It's bloody well more than difficult."

"Please calm down." Sherlock ordered coolly. "You're going to start bleeding again if you don't."

John stared at Sherlock, face incredulous. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? What am I supposed to do with a murder charge hanging over my head?"

Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling every single one of his 100+ years. "I don't know. I suppose you're going to have to stay with me while we figure things out."

"On that note, Sherlock." Molly piped up. "I need to show you my research. I think a few more puzzle pieces have fallen into place and I can explain most of the prophecy. Or at least the foundation of it."

"Tell me." Sherlock grew attentive.

"Not here." Molly said apologetically. "It's all at the library."

"We can't go out in broad daylight looking like this." Sherlock snapped, feeling the frustration build.

"I know. Can you change yourself... like you did when you met me?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated, picturing a different face he wanted to wear. After a few moments of trying, he opened his eyes and looked at Molly. "Anything?"

"You look the same." Molly chewed her lip.

"Then that's something I can't do anymore." Sherlock felt the weight of defeat fall heavy on his shoulders.

"They don't have a clear picture of you." Molly said. "So if we just dress you in different clothing, it might be okay. It's him we have to worry about."

She nodded at John, who was glancing between them.

Sherlock studied John from head to toe. "Different clothes will help. Perhaps some hair dye... and that will have to go." He indicated John's mustache.

"Wait, what?" John protested.

"I'm sorry, but it will. It's distinctive. Molly, can you get us supplies?"

"Sure, I'll run out and pick some things up. And there's some spare clothes in the room you were sleeping in. In the wardrobe - Father Wiggins always keeps several outfits on hand for if he encounters homeless people who need help."

John and Sherlock returned to the room and chose clothing in their size. While John showered in the bathroom, Sherlock examined his wings and decided they were healed enough to try making them disappear. Gritting his teeth, he concentrated power in his back and, with a sharp sting from the injured wing, he felt them melt into his skin, turning back into tattoos. There was a slight ache across his shoulders and he knew he should be careful when next summoning them. But at least his most hard-to-miss feature was now hidden.

Molly slid into the room carrying a small plastic bag from a local drugstore. Inside the bag were razors, shaving cream, a box of men's hair dye in light brown, and two black baseball caps with some sort of sports team logo on it. She smiled approvingly at the grey henley, jeans, and black sneakers Sherlock had chosen from the wardrobe. He had also chosen a well-worn, brown leather jacket with a grey hood attached to wear when they left.

Sherlock tapped at the bathroom door. "Molly's brought supplies."

The door cracked open letting out tendrils of steam from the hot shower and John, wrapped in a towel, peeked out. He took the shaving supplies and the box of dye with a mumbled "Thanks." Then the door clicked shut once more.

"He okay?" Molly asked.

"He's had a lot thrown at him in a very small space of time. But I think he's coping."

Half an hour later, John emerged, clean shaven and newly brunette. He looked at least five years younger without his mustache. He also was wearing only jeans, his chest bare.

"Um." He glanced nervously at Molly. "Sorry... it's just that... I need help with bandages?"

His wound looked healthy without any signs of infection or necrosis. Sherlock helped him apply new gauze and then John shrugged into the olive green, plaid button-up he'd chosen from Father Wiggins's supply. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on crew socks and a pair of brown work boots.

"You look a bit like a lumberjack now." Sherlock mused.

"Better than looking like a suspected murderer." John retorted.

Molly led them out to her car and they climbed in; Sherlock sat in front, while John took the back. The church library was only a short drive away and they soon pulled into the parking lot. The library was closed to visitors that day, but Molly had a key and let them in, leading them both up a flight of stairs to the rare books room.

The lights were already on and a soft humming echoed from one of the stacks.

"Phillip?" Molly called. "Is that you?"

"Molly!" A man with shaggy brown hair and a scraggly beard emerged, clutching a volume with gloved hands. "I was just working on repairing some of those old bibles we got in last week. What brings you here on your day off?"

"A bit of a development in the prophecy." Molly turned to Sherlock. "Phillip knows a little about the prophecy, Sherlock. He's helped interpret some of the passages that have given me trouble."

Phillip's eyes lit up as he took in Sherlock and John standing behind Molly. "You're Sherlock? I must say, you look nothing like I imagined."

"Oh.. er..." Sherlock wasn't sure how to reply.

Molly rushed to explain some of what had happened the night before, carefully leaving out the suspicion of murder. "I really think this makes some of the prophecy make sense, Phil. Do you want to sit in with us while I fill Sherlock and John in?"

"Of course, if it's okay." Phillip set the book he'd been holding on one of the work tables and removed his gloves.

Molly glanced at Sherlock. "I trust him, is that all right?"

After a few seconds, Sherlock nodded. "If you trust him, then I trust him."

They each pulled chairs around Molly's workspace as she switched on her computer and dug out a thick file folder bursting with notes and articles. Logging herself in when the computer booted up, Molly turned to face the three of them.

"The curse will descend when darkness meets light." She said. "That's one of the parts I was confused about. But I think it has to do with what happened last night. I think you've brought a curse upon yourself, Sherlock. It's the only thing that would explain why you're suddenly more human. You require sleep, you require food. You told me once that your heart has always remained human? I think that might be connected. I believe that, by breaking the rules this time, you've destroyed your ties to the Between. But you're not fully human, so you're...."

"Somewhere in the middle." Sherlock said, his voice low. "Limbo."

Molly nodded. "It's always been clear that you are 'darkness'. I believe that he--" She gestured to John. "--is light. You saved him, breaking the ultimate rule of death, and brought a curse upon yourself."

"But what kind of curse?" John interrupted. "What's going to happen?"

Molly nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, I don't know for sure, but I believe that, for now, without Sherlock to usher the dead to the other side, that throws the Between into chaos. And I think the curse - and Sherlock's development of human needs - means that he's aging. Slowly, but he's aging again. I've read a couple of books written by monks who witnessed many deaths in ancient times and they talked of a curse similar to this, striking the angel of death who visited them at times. The aging process starts out slowly, but it will grow worse as long as the curse remains. The prophecy states 'The sacrifice, once made, sets time to run.' That means that, by sacrificing himself to save you, John, Sherlock started his clock again. Eventually that time will run out."

"How long do we have?" John said, glancing between Sherlock and Molly.

Phillip, leaning forward, clasping his hands together. "No idea there, I'm afraid. The monks aren't terribly clear about the timeline of this happening before. Unfortunately, I don't think they ever broke the curse, which is how Sherlock came to be an angel of death, in a long line of them."

Sherlock's mouth ran dry as he tried to process this. "If I don't break the curse... I die? And then?"

"The Between will be at war with itself - a war of darkness - until another angel is found." Molly replied. "And our world will see the effects of that war, as well. More importantly, the souls who die will be stuck in limbo until they have someone to help lead them to the other side."

Sherlock rubbed his back tiredly. "I just don't understand how this has happened before... surely the records would talk about this sort of thing?"

"They _do_. It's just that it was an extremely long time ago and not everything has survived since then. There's a reason that the so-called 'dark ages' existed, though. I've found several correlations."

"Okay, so the fate of the world and the afterlife is on my shoulders." Sherlock said. "No pressure or anything. How do we stop this?"

"That's the trickier part. I don't know what the next part means. 'Death walks where love is found.' That could mean you," Molly looked at Sherlock. "Or it could mean figurative death. And the part about love...." She trailed off, her face suffusing with pink.

"The next part's a little easier, thanks to Molly's research." Phillip interjected. "'Life's blood sets right what once was wrong.' The curse _can_ be lifted. And by lifting it, you can also alter the way death works."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said, confused.

"The texts write about breaking the curse." Phillip continued, his eyes growing bright with excitement. "If the curse is lifted, there will be no need for a literal angel of death. Instead, souls will cross peacefully without an intermediary. And this dark underworld... the Between? Ceases to exist. Or at least so the legends say. No more demons or other creatures of darkness."

"Evil just... goes away?" Sherlock tried to grasp the concept.

"No, no." Phillip shook his head. "Look at the evil in the world. Man is responsible for that. Perhaps they would blame the demons or 'the devil', but it is their actions, their own free will, that committed that evil. Evil will always exist as a balance for good, but it will no longer be influenced by dark forces."

"Do you have any clue how the curse is lifted? What the last line means?" John asked, breaking his silent observation.

"Life's blood is pretty obvious." Molly said. "The texts write of an ancient dagger infused with the powers of light. I believe a sacrifice must be made."

She grew quiet, her eyes darting to Sherlock. It only took a moment for him to connect the dots. "I'm the sacrifice." He whispered.

"Your heart, specifically. I believe that's why it's always remained human." Molly looked apologetically at Sherlock.

"No!" John cried. "No, that isn't right. You can't sacrifice yourself just because you saved me. That isn't fair!"

"Life isn't fair." Sherlock mused. "But it is what it is. Too late to go back now. Do we know where this ancient dagger is?"

"It hasn't been easy, but I've managed to track the trail of it from the monks' time to present day. If my research is correct..." Molly spun around and, clicking her mouse a few times, brought up a map. "...it's being guarded in this church in Italy. In one of the most remote parts of the country, near Basilicata. The church is isolated - no way to get in touch other than going there yourself."

Sherlock nodded. "Fine. I jump on a plane, hire a car when I get there. We can get this taken care of in a couple of days."

"Not that easy, Sherlock. You should know better!" Molly chided. She ticked off her points on her fingers. "One, you're wanted for murder. As is John, who needs your protection because of that. Two, you can't travel to the Between like you normally would. Three, you _know_ you've angered someone. Do you think this fake murder charge is going to be the only thing they throw at you? You can't possibly travel through normal methods."

"What do you suggest, then, Molly?" Sherlock asked dryly. "Should I just summon my wings and fly myself there?"

Molly rubbed at her temples. "That's what I've been working on until now. I know I'm missing something, I just don't know what."

"Can I make a suggestion?" John interjected, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's wrist. "Do you think that does anything?"

Sherlock followed John's eyes to his compass rose tattoo. "Oooh." He breathed. "I never thought... but of course, there would have been no way to know until now."

He brushed a hand over the tattoo, felt power humming beneath the surface. "The hard part will be figuring out how it works."

"You can stay with Father Wiggins and me until you figure it out." Molly said quickly.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I don't want to drag the two of you into this any further. John and I will leave tonight... we can keep moving for now, get as far as we can. I've got contacts who can get us I.D., cash, whatever we need to keep us in hotels while I figure it out. Will you give me the directions to this church?"

Molly nodded, clicking her mouse a few times. A clattering printer wheezed to life, spitting out several pages of information. "This isn't going to be easy, you know."

"When has it ever been?" Sherlock said, amused. "I've spent over a century witnessing death, destruction... evil. I'm tired, Molly. I will do what is needed of me so that the world may go on... without me."

"Do I get a choice in this?" John asked, anger bubbling beneath the surface.

Sherlock cast sad eyes on him. "I'm sorry, John. I should never have involved you. If you wish to try going it on your own, you're welcome to, but I can't promise you won't run into trouble that you can't handle."

John set his jaw, running through his options. Finally, he nodded, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "You're right. Of course. We'll be more likely to survive if at least one of us knows how to fight what's coming."

"Right." Sherlock ruffled his fingers through his hair. "Let's get going? We've a long day of preparing before we can leave."

"Well?" Magnussen snapped as Moriarty entered his domain.

"Nothing, sir." Moriarty said, avoiding eye contact. "They've completely disappeared."

"Someone's hiding them. Protecting them. I can't see where they've gone."

"What do you want me to do?"

Magnussen lifted a stray feather, spinning it in his deft fingers. "Send out the hellhounds. Give them this for a scent."

"As you wish, my lord."


	10. Detour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John bid farewell to friends and take the first steps of their journey, only to find trouble almost immediately.

Sherlock carefully folded the new clothes he'd purchased that afternoon with some of the money his sources had acquired for him, then tucked the folded garments into a small, black bag. Beside him, John did the same, rolling socks into balls and removing the tags from the clothing as he went. They'd spoken very little that afternoon, both busy with making plans. They skirted around each other, avoiding getting too close, both keenly aware of how close they'd been the night before.

John cleared his throat, breaking into Sherlock's thoughts. "I, uh, I'm going to need to go home and get something before we go."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "That's not possible, you know that."

"No, sorry." John shook his head firmly. "This isn't under negotiation. I won't leave without it."

"What could possibly be so important?"

Face flushing slightly, John pressed his lips together tightly as he seemed to search for an answer. "I'm not comfortable telling you."

"But you're comfortable insisting I put myself in danger for you? Again?"

"You don't have to come."

Sherlock let out a short, sharp laugh. "In case you haven't noticed, we're kind of in this together!"

"Well, I'm going, with or without you."

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, then sighed. "It's important?"

"To me, it is." John stepped back a pace, allowing his tense body to relax.

"Then we'll go. But we'll have to figure out how to get in without being noticed."

John nodded, returning to his packing. "Thank you." He whispered.

The good-bye with Molly was, as Sherlock expected, tearful - at least on her part. She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug, whispering "You keep yourself safe, you hear me?"

Not quite knowing what to do with his hands, Sherlock patted Molly's back awkwardly until she withdrew and foisted a similar hug upon John.

Next, Father Wiggins clasped both their hands and smiled. "God is with you, young man."

Smirking at the idea of being a "young man" in Father Wiggins's eyes, Sherlock nodded his thanks. Farewells dealt with, they both hoisted their bags and walked to the waiting taxi. Sherlock hadn't seen the need to tell either Molly or the Father that they were making a detour. Instead of giving the cabbie the address to the hotel he'd booked for the evening, he gave John's address instead and, as they waved at the retreating figures of Molly and Father Wiggins, the cab pulled away from the curb and trundled towards its destination.

Not knowing how long their caper would take, Sherlock waved away the cabbie as he and John stood at the corner of John's block; they'd asked to be dropped off there, instead of in front of the house.

"Any suggestions?" Sherlock asked, noting a suspicious-looking, unmarked vehicle across the street from John's house.

John chewed his lip as he thought, his brow furrowing. "I think I could get in through the basement window. But I'll need to get into the back yard to do that."

"We could walk around the block, cross through some yards?" Sherlock suggested.

"Yeah, that'd work." John hoisted his bag on his shoulder. "C'mon, time's wasting."

It turns out that climbing fences is not only harder than it looks like in the movies, but it's also difficult to do when one is carrying a duffel bag of clothing. They both sweated and swore as they struggled over fences and snuck across back yards as the sun dipped low in the horizon and twilight stole over the ground. Most occupants were inside their homes as it was the dinner hour, so their trek across the yards didn't pose too much trouble. At one house, John set off the wild barking of a small dog, but they were able to escape just as the dog's owner came out into the yard to hush their pet.

"This one's mine." John sighed in relief as they landed in his back yard. "Basement window's over here."

The window, covered in dust and grime, popped open easily when John jiggled the latch just right.

"Handy." Sherlock murmured.

"Nah, just lazy. That window's never worked right and dad was always after me to fix it. Good thing I didn't."

He squeezed his body through the narrow opening, the frame catching worryingly at his hips, but with a few wriggles and grunts, he was through. Sherlock slipped in after him, allowing the window to close.

They were in pitch darkness, the musty smell of a disused basement filling their nostrils. John moved a few steps and hit his shin on a box on the floor.

"Shit!" He swore, hopping and rubbing at his ankle. "The light's around here somewhere."

"No." Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder. "The light will attract attention. I can see for both of us."

Fumbling, he clasped John's hand and began to lead them to the door that led to the rest of the house. They emerged into the kitchen, the house completely silent.

"You got rid of the clock." Sherlock observed softly.

"What? Oh... yeah, you've been here before. It stopped working - it's still in the hall, but now it's only right twice a day."

Sherlock smirked at John, even though he knew he couldn't see him.

"You should stay here." John said. "I'll just go grab what I need and be back in a few seconds and we can go."

Taking the stairs two at a time, John went to his bedroom and slid a hand under his bed, withdrawing the wooden box carved with the triquetra. Satisfied, he turned to leave.

The hellhound had materialized behind him in silence, its red glowing eyes flashing angrily. Now it curled its lip and let out an unearthly growl, its hackles raising ominously.

"Oh, shit." John breathed, holding his hands up in front of him and taking a step back. "Good dog... good doggie."

Crouching down low, the hellhound pushed with its powerful back legs and launched its body at John, catching him square in the chest and sending him with a thump to the floor. The snarling grew louder as the dog snapped at his face. John caught the dog in the throat with his hands and pushed backwards, trying to keep the sharp teeth from sinking into his skin. Its claws scrabbled for purchase as the hellhound tried to get at John, a long rope of saliva dripping from its fangs. A drop of the slobber fell onto John's arm with a hiss as he discovered the saliva was acid.

"God dammit!" He let one of his hands go, shaking his burning arm to try to alleviate the pain.

The hellhound took the opportunity, pushing harder into John, its stinking maw opening wide to close around his throat. John squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable.

The inevitable never came, as a dark figure appeared in the doorway, followed by a brilliant flash of light that caught the hellhound square on its back and tossed it aside. The dog yelped and then, in a puff of smoke, it was gone. Sherlock swept into the room, his already pale face even whiter with fear.

"Are you all right?" He asked, helping John to his feet.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I wouldn't have been in a second, though. Thanks." John, limbs shaky from the encounter, brushed off his clothes and retrieved the box from where it had slid. It was remarkably unharmed, the contents all still in the box. "Let's get out of here before more of those come."

"That's what you came for?" Sherlock stared at the box disapprovingly.

"It's important to me, Sherlock."

"Fine. Let's go."

They'd just reached the bottom of the stairs when the front door burst open, kicked in by Greg Lestrade, who now stood in the doorway, his gun leveled at John.

"Freeze!" Lestrade yelled. "Put your hands above your head and kneel on the ground."

Behind him was Sally Donovan, face grim and weapon also drawn. Sherlock could see several other officers with guns behind them. He elbowed John and indicated for him to raise his hands.

"That's it, nice and slow." Greg said as they both kneeled to the floor, hands raised above their heads. "I'm going to cuff you and read you your rights."

What Greg failed to see, but what John knew was coming, was the power gathering in Sherlock's palms, his sun tattoos glowing around the edges. John squeezed his eyes shut as Sherlock flung out his wrists, the brilliant white light emerging from his palms once more, blinding the police detectives in front of them.

"Run, John! Now!" Sherlock tugged John to his feet and they barreled through the police at the door, who were still trying to regain their sight.

Their feet pounded in tandem as they puffed down the sidewalk towards the corner. John clutched his bag and the wooden box tightly as he struggled to keep up with Sherlock.

"This way!" Sherlock darted left at the corner, down another street. They could hear the distant footfalls of the police pursuing them.

"What," John panted, "are we...going...to do?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped, jerking John's arm to pull him down another street, which proved to be a cul-de-sac.

Sherlock swore; he could hear the police drawing closer. "I'm going to try something, John. Please don't struggle."

"What?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock pushed John in front of him and then put on a burst of speed. As they neared the end of the cul-de-sac, Sherlock's wings burst from his tattoos and he flapped them, causing a powerful ripple of air. As Sherlock's feet left the ground, he gripped John's waist tightly and they both became airborne. Sherlock's wings beat the air, knocking Lestrade and Sally back as the waves hit them.

"I won't be able to go far!" Sherlock gasped, gaining height and aiming them over the rooftops. "I won't be able to hold you for long."

"Just don't drop me!" John cried, trying not to look at the ground below.

They soared over rooftops and streets, then began losing altitude as Sherlock aimed for an empty field behind one of the neighborhoods. They hit the ground and rolled, landing in a thick mire of mud that immediately coated them head to toe. Sherlock lay face up on the ground, staring into the sky, chest heaving from the effort of carrying John.

"You all right?" John sat up, flicking mud off of his arms. Their bags lay a couple meters away, blessedly out of the mud. John's box sat on its side, the lid still tightly latched.

"I don't know." Sherlock groaned. "I haven't felt this kind of pain in centuries."

"Anything broken?"

Sherlock groaned and sat up, his wings bedraggled and coated with mud. He checked himself over and then finally answered, "No, I don't think so."

"We need to get going. We won't have lost them for long."

"We can't take a cab like this."

"No," John said ruefully. "But I think if we walk for a bit, we'll find a bus that might take us."

He struggled to his feet, then extended a grubby hand to Sherlock, who took it and allowed himself to be pulled up.

"C'mon, old man." John chided.

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter. "This old man saved your mortal ass."

John grinned crookedly at him, his eyes sparkling. "Thanks, by the way."

"Your turn next time." Sherlock teased. He was reminded of the easy banter he'd shared with Victor and that memory made him stop to catch his breath. _He's not Victor. And you're not who you were back then, either._

John cleared his throat. "Right. We really should go. Can you carry your bag, or do I need to take it?"

"I think I'll be okay." Sherlock lifted the bag onto his shoulder.

"Um, you gonna put those away?" John pointed to Sherlock's wings.

"I don't think I can." Sherlock said. "Not with them covered in mud. Besides, I think I expended all my energy using my light spell twice _and_ flying."

"Well..." John mused as they limped slowly out of the field. "Maybe we can hide them somehow on the bus."

"I'll hold them close to my body." Sherlock said. "You'd be amazed at what humans refuse to see, if it happens to be something hard to believe."

Sherlock turned out to be right. They arrived just in time to catch the final bus and John was amazed when more fuss was made over the amount of mud on them than the fact that Sherlock clearly had wings. It was almost as though their eyes slid right over the wings, unable to focus on something so unbelievable.

As the bus pulled onto the street, Sherlock lay his head against the window, the coolness of the glass seeping into his skin. He closed his eyes and let himself relax a fraction. John scooted close and Sherlock draped an arm over his shoulders, pulling him tightly against him.

"This okay?" Sherlock whispered. "Just thought... we need to stay close to each other."

"Yeah." John's voice was shaky as the adrenaline rush of the last couple of hours left him. "It's all fine."

They rode in companionable silence as the bus meandered towards their destination.

"How did we lose them?" Sally gasped, clambering to her feet. "They were just there!"

"Did you see that?" Lestrade gaped into the air. "That tall one... he's got wings!"

"Have you gone insane?"

"I swear it, Donovan! He flew away!"

Sally stared at Lestrade, worry on her face. "Greg, don't you think the stress of this case is getting to you a little?"

"I know what I saw, Sally!"

"But it's impossible!"

Greg rubbed at his eyes and sighed. "Yeah. I know it is. Of course it's impossible. Sorry... I don't know what just came over me."

Sally laid a hand on his shoulder. "You're tired. You're trying to find one of our own - a _friend_ \- to arrest for murder. Of course your mind would play tricks on you. C'mon... they must've escaped somehow. Maybe we can catch them on one of the cross streets."

Sally took off back to the other officers, hollering at them to start their vehicles. Greg paused a moment to glance up at the sky. As he turned to go, he noticed one black feather on the ground. Picking it up, he brushed his fingers over it. It was too large to belong to any bird he was familiar with.

"I know something's not right." He whispered, tucking the feather in his pocket for safekeeping. "And I'm going to find out the truth."

He jogged to catch up with Sally and they climbed into their vehicles to continue the hunt.


	11. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Covered in mud and in need of a shower, things with Sherlock and John get a little steamy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the gap in updates. My work schedule is pretty intense (80+ hours a week) and exhaustion caught up to me. Hope this chapter helps make up for it. :)

The hotel Sherlock checked them into was the type of place that did not ask when two head-to-toe covered-in-mud individuals asked for a room for the night. Sherlock flashed his fake I.D., filled out the paperwork, and pocketed a key before leading John back out the door and to a second floor room that had seen better days. The interior decoration was stuck in the 1970s and the carpet was threadbare. The air smelled vaguely of old cigarettes and mold with an undercurrent of harsh cleaning chemicals. Twin beds, sagging in the middle, were covered in burnt orange bedspreads.

Sherlock dropped his bag on one of the beds, then glanced at John. "Do you want the shower first?"

"No, it's okay... you go." John felt exhaustion seeping into his bones and he wondered if he could just strip off his muddy clothes and crawl into bed.

"Will you be... all right?" Sherlock asked, kicking off his sneakers and peeling off his jacket in a shower of dried mud.

John laughed and looked down at himself. "No. But yes. Go, get cleaned up so I can."

Nodding, Sherlock shut himself in the tiny hotel bathroom and, moments later, John could hear the sound of the shower being turned on. John checked himself out in the mirror on the wall; his face and exposed skin was streaked in dried mud, but his clothes had gotten the worst of the dirt. He pulled his boots and socks off, mentally apologizing to the housekeeping staff who would have to clean the carpet after they left.

The bathroom door cracked open and a billow of steam came out.

"John?" Sherlock's voice said hesitantly. "I think I might need help."

Approaching the door, John saw that Sherlock was naked from the waist up, his skin as streaked with mud as John's, though his chest was relatively clean as his clothes had taken the brunt of things. Sherlock indicated his wings.

"I can't reach that far behind me to clean these."

John blushed, but nodded. "Sure, let me in."

Sherlock backed away from the door and John squeezed into the bathroom, which was entirely too small for two grown men - one of them with a gigantic pair of wings - to stand comfortably apart.

"Where...?" Sherlock looked around for a spot to sit down.

He swung around and John got a face full of mud-covered wings. Spluttering, John grabbed Sherlock's arm and turned him back around.

"This isn't working," John said, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. "Look. We both need to get this mud off of us. I'm exhausted. At this point, I really don't care if you see me in my all-together."

As he spoke, John unzipped his jeans and stepped out of them, which caused Sherlock's eyes to go wide and his face to take on a decidedly pink flush.

"C'mon," John waved at Sherlock as he stripped off his shirt. "Off with them."

Slowly, Sherlock slipped out of his jeans, and then his underwear, until he stood completely naked in front of John. John finished removing his clothes, as well. He couldn't help but sweep his eyes up and down Sherlock's body, taking in the defined muscles and skin pale enough for faint blue veins to be visible.

"Ooh." John breathed, voice caught in his throat. Sherlock looked like a statue, carved in marble. If not for the mud, he would have been a work of art. "I... um... okay, let's do this, right?"

Sherlock, equally mesmerized with John's golden skin, particularly the fine blonde hair covering his chest and trailing down to....

He shook his head to change the course of his thoughts and blushed again, not meeting John's eyes. "I'll just... get in first, shall I?"

Sherlock climbed into the shower and under the hot stream of water. Rivulets of muddy water streamed down his legs. John climbed in afterwards and grabbed a bar of soap. It was cheap and smelled perfume-y, but anything would work at this point.

"Turn around, so I can get your wings." John croaked, feeling the air crackle between them as they stood so close.

Sherlock turned and John lathered his hands with soap, working it into the feathers of Sherlock's wings. Sherlock sucked in a breath as John buried his fingers in the feathers to get at every speck of dirt.

"What was that thing? In my house?" John asked, trying to divert Sherlock's mind somewhere else.

"Hellhound." Sherlock answered, his voice clipped as he tried not to enjoy what was happening too much. "For want of a better word, my 'boss' sent them after us. Or at least, I'm pretty sure he did."

"The Angel of Death has a boss?"

Sherlock smiled. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but yes. There is a hierarchy in the Between and I'm certainly not at the top of it. I've angered him greatly by breaking the rules as I did."

"You mean because you saved my life?"

"Yes. Many times, actually. I believe you were meant to die at birth until I interfered."

John grew quiet as he scrubbed more soap into the feathers.

"That may not be the last time we see a Hellhound." Sherlock said quietly. "Once they've gotten our scent, they're incredibly hard to get rid of. We'll have to keep an eye out for more. They aren't usually visible to mortals, but I have a feeling this whole experience and your association with me has changed your view of the world a little."

"And that thing you did? To get rid of the Hellhound?"

Sherlock held up one of his hands to show off his sun tattoo. "I get these sometimes. When I take a soul... or rather, when I bend the rules a little while taking the soul. This one was my first and it's proven very useful as you observed tonight."

"I would've been a goner without it." John quipped. "Okay, turn around... time to rinse."

Sherlock turned and met John's eyes. They were incredibly close, noses almost touching, as the water poured over Sherlock's wings and washed the last traces of the mud on his wings away. John stared at him, a serious look on his face. Then he reached up and cupped Sherlock's cheek. Pressing closer, he brushed his lips softly across Sherlock's, swallowing the small gasp that escaped Sherlock's mouth. Finding no resistance, John deepened the kiss, winding his fingers into Sherlock's wet curls with one hand and resting his other hand on Sherlock's hip. John slipped his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth, probing and tasting him. Sherlock's body relaxed into John and he placed one hand on John's shoulder while he braced himself against the shower wall with his other hand. Sherlock groaned into John's mouth as he was pushed back into the shower stream . He felt a stirring at his groin, a sensation that he hadn't felt since he'd been fully alive and mortal. John's own erection pressed into Sherlock's abdomen, his arousal evident.

Breaking the kiss, Sherlock pushed John back to make space between them. "I... this isn't right."

"Feels right." John's eyes were bright and intense. "Feels like something I've wanted to do for a long time now. I just didn't know it."

Sherlock swallowed, trying to gain control of his desire. "It's just the adrenaline... the danger. This is a natural response. But we shouldn't...."

"As far as I can tell." John traced a finger down Sherlock's chest until he reached the place where his heart was. The golden thread between them became visible and glowed brightly. "We've been connected since the day I was born. Our lives are hopelessly intertwined now, Sherlock. Seeing you now, the way you are _right now_ , made me realize how hopelessly attracted I am to you."

"It's been so long since I indulged my emotions." Sherlock murmured, allowing John to draw him closer. "It scares me."

John laughed. "You saved me from a Hellhound and took me flying tonight. You took a bullet for me. _This_ scares you?"

"It's a little ridiculous, when you put it that way." A smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "You're sure about this?"

"Sure as I've ever been about anything. We've been fighting for our lives... let's have a little fun while we can?"

Needing no further encouragement, Sherlock swooped down to meet John's lips, questing hungrily as he let his hands roam over John's back. John gave as good as he got, trailing kisses over Sherlock's jawline and nipping softly at his neck with his teeth. He explored Sherlock's body with his hands, tweaking the hard bud of a nipple before going lower and encircling Sherlock's hardening cock with his hand.

Sherlock gasped as John began to stroke while he trailed his lips over Sherlock's shoulder. Crouching as best he could in the cramped shower, John continued his trip downward by kissing Sherlock's tight abdomen, licking the muscles with his tongue, which elicited a hiss from Sherlock's mouth.

John paused in his stroking, reaching around to probe between Sherlock's ass cheeks until he found his tight opening. As he pressed a finger past the ring of muscle, he slipped his mouth over the head of Sherlock's cock and swirled his tongue over the tip. John pushed his finger into Sherlock's ass, then slowly pulled it out. As he did, he took more of Sherlock's length into his mouth.

"Oh, God." Sherlock whimpered, hands finding John's head and tugging roughly at his hair. John growled, his throat vibrating over Sherlock's cock. Sherlock's hips twitched as John continued bobbing his head, his tongue laving the underside of his cock.

"I can't..." Sherlock breathed. "John, I won't last much longer."

John pulled his head back, his lips resting on the head of Sherlock's cock. He licked the slit at the top, causing a new wave of shudders to travel through Sherlock's body, then stood up, leaving Sherlock feeling bereft and wanting.

John leaned forward again and nipped at Sherlock's earlobe. "Do you want me inside you?" His voice was raspy with desire.

"Yes, oh, God... yes." Sherlock whispered, too far gone to even think about turning back.

"Turn around." John commanded, helping Sherlock to maneuver in the small space.

Sherlock braced himself against the shower wall, the stream of warm water cascading down his back as he leaned forward to open himself up for John. He spread his wings out to make space for John's body to be against his. John stood back, appreciating the sight of Sherlock's body prone and ready for him. He slid open the shower door to paw through the cabinet that was mounted against the wall above the toilet. Settling on a tube of unscented lotion, John squirted some into his hand and stroked his cock. He positioned himself behind Sherlock, finding his entrance, and pressed himself slowly into Sherlock.

"Fuck." Rasped Sherlock, his back muscles tensing. "I'm ready to burst, John."

Laughing, John slid all the way in. He leaned over and sunk his teeth playfully into Sherlock's shoulder. Reaching around and grasping Sherlock's cock, he began to stroke in time to his thrusts. The sounds of skin slapping against skin mixed with their moans and grunts.

John lost himself in his rutting, his mind going blank with pleasure. Sherlock had never looked more beautiful - his alabaster skin contrasting with the wet, black curls of his hair and the bold tattoos that covered his body. The cries coming from Sherlock's mouth drove John to thrust faster; he longed to press his lips to Sherlock's mouth and catch each of those cries for his own.

Sherlock's hips undulated as he pushed back to meet John's thrusts. "Faster!" He gasped, feeling pressure build inside him.

John slammed his hips into Sherlock and increased the speed of his strokes on Sherlock's cock. His other hand splayed over the small of Sherlock's back, steadying himself.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John gasped, growing ever closer to the edge.

"Come with me, John." Sherlock whimpered. "I'm almost there."

Together they crested the wave, Sherlock crying out as his cock spurted over John's hand, a stream of semen washing down the drain. John's cock pulsed in Sherlock's ass as he came, Sherlock's muscles squeezing every last drop from him.

As the shudders of their orgasm left, John became aware of the water, now closer to lukewarm than hot, still cascading over them. He was breathing heavily, skin still tingling with pleasure from their coupling.

"Okay?" He asked, stepping back, his softening cock slipping out of Sherlock's ass.

Sherlock stood, shakily, and turned to face John. "That was... incredible."

John laughed. "Flattery gets you everywhere."

He leaned past Sherlock and twisted the shower knob to off. "I think we're probably clean enough now."

They both climbed out of the shower and helped each other dry, exchanging furtive, flirtatious glances and soft smiles. John rubbed a towel gently over Sherlock's wings until they were restored to their usual glossiness.

"You able to put those bad boys away?" John asked, indicating the wings.

"I think I can now that they're clean." Sherlock said, closing his eyes and concentrating.

With a pop of pressure in the air, Sherlock's wings returned to their tattoo form and the bathroom suddenly seemed a bit more spacious. They continued drying themselves off, then Sherlock fished out pajama bottoms and t-shirts from each of their bags.

"It feels good to be clean again." John remarked, his hair sticking out in all directions. "And I'm suddenly starving. You?"

"Ravenous." Sherlock appreciated the ease with which they fell into casual conversation. "I could phone for something?"

"Chinese takeaway sounds good." John flipped through a book on the table in their room that had a collection of menus. "There's one nearby, so it won't take long to be delivered."

They both debated over which dishes to get before Sherlock phoned in an order. Hanging up, he turned to find John sitting at the edge of his bed and staring at Sherlock with an odd light in his eyes.

"What?" Sherlock smirked, walking around the beds and nudging John's knees open so he could stand between them.

John tilted his head back to look at Sherlock's face and smiled sweetly. "You're beautiful, you know that?"

Sherlock blushed. "What brought this on?"

John shrugged. "I think I've always felt something for you. At least since that night with my dad. You were terrifying then, but also beautiful. I didn't even know you were real, but I couldn't forget you."

"Was I...?" Sherlock trailed off, trying to figure out how to form his question. "Was I your first?"

"No." John glanced away. "I've had a few girlfriends... one boyfriend. Nothing ever became really serious, just some fun to pass the time."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded. "Am I fun to pass the time?"

Meeting Sherlock's eyes once again, John grew serious. "You know better than that."

"Do I?"

John's fingers crept to Sherlock's chest again, the thread glowing bright and wrapping around his wrist in a fluid motion. "We're connected, you and I."

Sherlock caught John's hand in his and the thread wrapped around them both, tying them together. "I won't be here long." He whispered, his voice sorrowful.

"I know." John leaned his head on Sherlock's stomach and closed his eyes. "I think you're going to shatter me, Sherlock."

They stood like that until a knock at the door broke them apart. Sherlock paid the delivery person and took the proffered bag of Chinese food.

"Spread it out on the bed." John said. "Let's eat here."

Putting aside their early seriousness, they chatted lightly while they ate. John shared some of his stories from police training while Sherlock talked about how much London had changed since he'd been alive. Soon their bellies were full and both of their eyes drooped with exhaustion.

"I don't want to sleep alone." John said softly, as he helped clear up the remains of their meal.

"I don't either, if I'm being quite honest." Sherlock replied. "We could push the beds together?"

After rearranging the furniture slightly, they climbed into bed, Sherlock curving his body around John's and throwing an arm around him possessively.

"What's the plan for tomorrow?" John asked sleepily.

"Time to figure out if this compass tattoo does anything." Sherlock said. "We've got to figure out how to get to Italy without gaining too much attention."

"Mm." John said, his eyes fully closed now. "Tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow." Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair and inhaled the scent. "After we've rested."

Together they drifted into an easy sleep, their breaths deepening as the night outside continued its journey towards dawn.

"He's killed one of my Hellhounds." Magnussen growled. "What do you both suggest, now?"

"My Lord," Moriarty began, exchanging a nervous glance with Mary. "Sherlock is experienced in hiding his actions. Perhaps we should try another tactic."

"And what would that be?" Magnussen arched an eyebrow.

"Fight him from the inside out." Moriarty said. "We know that Sherlock has a place in his mind where he goes to be alone. We can't infiltrate that without more information."

"But," Mary chimed in. "We _can_ influence his dreams. He is close to discovering dream-walking. What he won't know is that he can be hurt just as easily there as he can in reality."

Magnussen allowed a cruel smile to cross his lips. "Yes, I think that would be an exceptionally good idea. Go... do what you must."

Moriarty and Mary withdrew, muttering dark plans to each other while Magnussen stared placidly into his fireplace.

"You sure it was him you saw?" Lestrade said into his mobile. "Great, thank you for the information. You may have given us a great lead."

He hung up and Sally shot him a curious look from the passenger seat of their car.

 

"That was someone who called the tip line. Claims he saw John Watson and an unknown man with dark hair checking into a hotel near Islington."

"What are we waiting for, then? Let's go!"

"I don't want them to get away this time." Lestrade insisted. "Let's plan this out before we ambush them. Maybe get a few more team members to go with us."

They radioed in for a back-up team. Lestrade ignored the doubts in the back of his mind as he and Sally began planning their takedown.


	12. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John discover the purpose of Sherlock's compass tattoo.

John blinked awake slowly, the early morning light filtering through the hotel room curtains. Sherlock lay beside him, propped on one elbow, watching him seriously.

"Morning." John mumbled as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "How long have you been awake?"

"Awhile. Didn't need as much sleep as you."

John nodded and found himself lost for words. The events of the night before came flooding back and his face reddened as he pushed himself into a half-sitting position, resting his back against the wall.

Sherlock's eyes sharpened, as though reading John's emotions. "Do you regret it?"

"N-no!" John shook his head vehemently. "None of it... I just... well, I don't know how to act around you."

Sherlock pushed himself to a sitting position, the blankets draped loosely across his lap. "I don't see any reason to change how you've acted around me so far?"

"But... last night... we --" John tried to put his thoughts into words, but his mind jumbled together like a hopelessly tangled ball of yarn.

"Last night we shared something." Sherlock stated. "Today we have to focus on breaking a curse. Tomorrow? Who knows where we'll be by then."

"You're right. I know you're right."

"So that leaves us...?"

"I guess it leaves us taking everything day by day." John sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands.

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his palm on John's knee. "John... last night was special, I won't deny that. It's been a long time - longer than you've been alive twice over - that I've shared a connection with someone like that. But the reality is...." 

He trailed off, swallowing hard as they both remembered exactly what Sherlock's reality was to be.

"I know how this ends." John whispered. "Doesn't stop me from feeling what I feel."

"And that is?"

John looked away, towards the window. "I don't know... not yet."

Sherlock scooted closer and took one of John's hands, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles. "Maybe we just wait and see how all this plays out?"

John nodded. "I guess I'd be okay with that."

Sherlock smiled softly. "Tell me something about yourself, John Watson."

"What?" John said, voice tinged with laughter.

"Anything. I just wanted a fact to squirrel away as my very own."

"Ah, okay." John leaned his head back and closed his eyes, thinking. "How about this. Back when I was in, I don't know, second or third grade, I was kind of a scrawny little thing. All arms and legs and big eyes. My dad did the best he could, but I think I showed up to school every day looking like a poor orphan boy with mismatched socks and holes in trousers. The kids teased me mercilessly about it and I cried a lot. There was this one teacher, Miss Hambly - an art teacher. She took pity on me and let me stay in the art room at break times and paint or draw instead of going out if I needed a break from the other kids. One day, she gave me a rock with a hole through the middle and told me it was good luck. She told me if I was worried or scared, I'd just have to rub it for good luck and everything would be okay. I carried that rock with me everywhere and you know what? It worked. That was the last day I let the kids make me cry. After that, I started making a few friends and I didn't feel quite so alone."

Sherlock stayed mesmerized through the whole story, watching John's face as it grew contemplative. "Do you still have the rock?"

"No." John shook his head and cleared his throat a couple of times before continuing. "I... um... I buried it with my dad. Put it in his hand so that if he needed good luck..." John's voice broke on the last word and he swallowed and blinked rapidly. "If he needed good luck, he'd have that, even though he didn't have me."

"Thank you." Sherlock said, after they'd sat in silence for a moment. "For telling me that."

John shot a sad, crooked smile at Sherlock, his eyes a little brighter than before. "Thanks for listening."

He clapped his hands on his knees and moved to get out of bed. "I'm going to get cleaned up and dressed, so we can start the day."

John slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom while Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. Sherlock's eyes caught the wooden box that had been so important to John, sitting on the table in their room. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, glancing at the bathroom door to make sure John was still occupied.

The box was latched, but not locked. Sherlock pushed the simple latch aside and lifted the lid. Inside he found an explosion of feathers. He drew in a breath as he realized whose feathers they were. He lifted each from the box, noting that they were all in various stages of wearing out. Laying those aside, he fingered the delicate silver chain of the cross necklace, feeling an aura of warmth and love flowing from the metal. Underneath that was a small stack of photos - John as a boy with a thin face and white-blonde hair that hadn't yet turned the golden color it was now. He smiled a familiar, crooked smile, revealing a gap where he'd lost his front tooth. Next came a series of pictures of John's parents; stocky Calloway smiling proudly as he draped his arm around a laughing Joanna. Sherlock's heart lurched at seeing Joanna again and in such stark contrast to how he had last seen her.

"Finding anything interesting?" John asked casually, leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

Sherlock dropped the box with a slight thunk against the table and blushed. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to pry."

"S'okay." John strolled over to the table. "I would have shown them to you, if you'd asked."

"Sorry." Sherlock muttered again.

John reached around him and took one of the feathers, running his fingers across the edge. "You left these for me, didn't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "I don't really know why...."

"I'm glad you did. They helped me calm myself whenever I got too anxious."

"Good. I wanted to help you somehow."

"You've helped me so much... all my life." John murmured, eyes still fixed on the feather in his hand. "Why me? What's so special about me?"

Sherlock, face to face with the question he'd been asking himself for years, found he had no answer. "I... don't know."

John pulled a face, then laughed. "Aren't you supposed to get all romantic and tell me that there's no one in the world like me?"

"Oh! Um... well, there isn't, really!" Sherlock stammered. "Of course you have special qualities... like... um...."

John laughed harder. "It's okay, Sherlock. I didn't mean to catch you off guard."

He placed the feathers back in the box and latched it again. "Whatever the reason, I'm glad you chose me."

John rose to his tiptoes and brushed a soft kiss against Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock, rendered fully speechless, covered the spot on his cheek with his hand, feeling John's lips on his skin far longer than he should have.

"Can't help myself around you." John whispered, before putting more distance between them. "So... breakfast first? Or do you just want to get started?"

"Breakfast." Sherlock insisted "We'll both need strength for whatever the day brings."

Sherlock refused John's offer to go out and get something, insisting it was too dangerous for him to be out any more than necessary. He hurriedly threw on clothes and left John behind to acquire breakfast. A short time later, he returned with a bag of bagels and cream cheese, individual pots of yogurt, and a carton of juice. He looked slightly more disheveled than he had before he left.

"All right?" John asked, snagging one of the pots of yogurt and peeling off the top.

"Sure, sure." Muttered Sherlock, dumping the food on the table and grabbing a bagel for himself. "I just had a little trouble deciding what to get. There are a LOT of breakfast foods, John."

John grinned at the picture that popped into his head of Sherlock comparing options for breakfast until he got frustrated and grabbed the first thing he saw. "There are. I'll help you make a list next time."

"Tha' be goo." Sherlock mumbled around a mouthful of bagel and cream cheese, spraying the table lightly with crumbs.

Finishing up the food, they cleared away trash, then sat across from each other at the table.

"What now?" John asked.

"This." Sherlock flashed the compass tattoo at his wrist. "I'm sure it's connected to what we have to do."

"So how do you figure out how it works?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I don't know. I guess just... experiment?"

He sat back in his chair and ran a hand over the tattoo. He could feel the humming power beneath it. Sherlock placed a hand on the tattoo, closed his eyes, and concentrated. The power fluttered beneath his palm and after a few moments, he opened his eyes. He was still in the hotel room. He glanced at John, who watched him intently.

"Anything?"

"Nope... nothing."

Sherlock tried several more times, picturing the place he wanted to go. He had John place his hand over the tattoo, then they both touched it. He used his swirl tattoos to poke at the compass and twine around his wrist. Still nothing. Morning turned to afternoon and Sherlock found himself growing frustrated.

"Maybe you need to be more relaxed?" John suggested. "Why not lay down on the bed?"

"I suppose it couldn't hurt." Sherlock scowled.

He stretched out on the bed, head on a pillow and closed his eyes once more.

"Keep your mind clear." John said softly as he sat on the edge of the bed opposite from Sherlock. "And relax all your limbs."

Taking some deep breaths, Sherlock tried to relax. He placed his hand over the tattoo and concentrated. He could tell nothing changed, but he kept his hand there all the same as John continued talking quietly.

"Don't try so hard, just let your mind go. Let it drift."

As John's voice floated over him, Sherlock felt his limbs grow heavy with tiredness. His mind did, indeed, drift and then the peaceful dark of sleep took him over.

Sherlock opened his eyes to find himself standing in a field. The sky above him was dark with impending rain. The air swirling around him carried the smell of wet earth. He took his hand off his compass tattoo and tried not to panic. He needed John with him. As he turned around to look at all of his surroundings, the surrounding air warped and wavered.

"It's a dream...." Sherlock breathed. "It's all a dream."

He grabbed at the skin on his forearm and pinched sharply, feeling a jolt travel up his arm until....

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sat up in the hotel bed. John gaped at him, having jumped to his feet.

"Where did you go?" John gasped.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked at the same time, their voices crossing over each other.

John reached out to touch Sherlock's shoulder, as if to reassure himself he was really there. "You were here...and then you weren't."

"For how long?"

"Maybe... five minutes?"

Sherlock nodded. "I've heard about this. It's rare, but it's a skill some in the Between have. It's called Dream-Walking. We can use it to travel where we need to go, but it will be difficult. It will take time for me to control where we end up...and there could be things we encounter."

"Things?"

"Things from the Between, John. They'll want to stop us, of course. But it's most likely our only choice."

"Will I be able to go with you?" John asked, worriedly.

"I think so." Sherlock answered. "I think as long as you're touching me, you'll come into my dreams."

"And our things?"

"Trickier... but I think if they're touching me as well, they'll show up wherever we end up waking up."

"So... do we try this out?"

"I think we have to." Sherlock said.

They both gathered their most essential things an stacked them beside the bed. Sherlock left a wad of bills and the hotel room key on the middle of the table.

"Okay, let's do this." John said, rubbing his hands together.

They stretched onto the bed and Sherlock laid their bags across his legs. John laid next to him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest. Satisfied that they had everything, Sherlock closed his eyes, placed his palm over the tattoo, and let his mind drift until he felt sleep overtake him.

The field was still there when he opened his eyes. John stood next to him, hand still on his arm. Their bags weren't there, but Sherlock could feel them there, incorporeally, somewhere between the planes. The sky had grown darker and Sherlock heard the low rumble of thunder in the distance. Somewhere far ahead of them, he saw a wooden door hanging in mid-air.

"I think it worked." He said softly. "And I think that's where we need to go."

He indicated the door and John nodded. "Right. That isn't very far. We should be able to cross this field before the storm hits."

"Don't be so casual, John. Remember... this is a dream world, anything could happen."

"Okay... then let's stay close." John fumbled for Sherlock's hand and laced his fingers with Sherlock's fingers.

They began walking, the tall grass in the field brushing against their legs. Insects buzzed around them and the storm edged closer, clouds flickering with lightning. As they walked, the door appeared to get further and further away.

"This isn't working." Sherlock muttered. He looked behind them and understanding dawned. "We're going the wrong way."

"What? But the door is this way?" John protested.

"No, it's actually that way." Sherlock pointed behind them and John turned to see an identical door. "Dreams, remember?"

They turned around and resumed walking. This time the door grew closer. To their left a gnarled tree stood. Sherlock flicked his eyes to the tree as a flash of movement caught his attention. From the gnarled roots and shivering leaves, he spotted shining black eyes peering out. Then a tiny, round creature hopped out onto one of the limbs. It was some sort of bird, its feathers forming a cloud of fluff around its body. Its beak gave it the look of perpetually smiling and it blinked bright eyes at him as it ruffled its wings.

"John." Sherlock hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "I think we need to pick up the pace."

John looked in the direction of where Sherlock was looking and grinned. "From those things? They're so cute!"

"Yeah, and what do cute things usually end up being in dreams?" Sherlock tugged at John's hand.

"Point taken."

They put on a burst of speed and Sherlock heard fluttering behind him. Looking back, he saw the tree covered in the fluffy birds, all blinking hungrily at John and Sherlock's retreating bodies. One let out a high-pitched screech and Sherlock saw its mouth was filled with a row of tiny, razor-sharp teeth. As he and John grew further away from the tree, Sherlock felt the birds collectively gather themselves to launch into the air.

"John." Sherlock said sharply. "When I say run, run."

John glanced behind him in time to see the birds take to the sky and head rapidly their way. "Shit!"

"RUN!"


	13. Detour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John face new obstacles in both dreams and wakefulness.

John's foot hit a rock in the field and he went sprawling with a loud cry. The birds zeroed in on him, descending from the sky in a huge, dark mass. John curled up into a ball on the ground, covering his head with his arms as he felt sharp claws and beaks pluck at his clothing and scratch at his skin.

There was a feeling of increased pressure in the air and a loud popping noise and then John felt the birds recede. He looked up, peeking above his arms cautiously. Sherlock stood in the middle of the field, his wings spread out behind him. He looked as though he had grown to ten feet as he loomed over John. His eyes glowed red and his horns and fangs were visible in the dream world. The swirling black tattoos on his arms now roiled and writhed around him, shooting out in all direction to snatch birds from the sky, twisting them until their feathered bodies practically exploded in a shower of feathers and blood. What few birds remained fled in a chorus of angry screeching. As the approaching storm finally broke and the sky opened up, dumping a torrent of rain upon them both, Sherlock collapsed to the ground. His tattoos returned to their two-dimensional state on his arms and his chest heaved from the effort he'd expended. Scrambling up, John ran to Sherlock and crouched to check on him.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" John knelt down next to Sherlock and tried to meet his eyes.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said between breaths. "I don't have as much stamina now that my connection to the Between is altered."

John helped Sherlock to his feet and they both dusted themselves off. Sherlock was back to looking mostly human again - his wings put away, horns, fangs, and red eyes receded. 

"Thanks for that." John said. "Thought I was done for. That was a pretty impressive display you gave."

Sherlock looked nervously around. "We should go. We can't trust that's the only thing that we'll face in here."

The door across the field still stood and they rushed towards it, the tall grass of the field whooshing against their legs as they moved closer to their destination. When they reached the door, John paused and studied it.

"So where does this take us?" He asked.

"I think it should take us wherever I concentrate on going."

"We could be in Italy the minute we cross through this door, then?" John looked at Sherlock, a mixture of eagerness and apprehension on his face. "This would all be over?"

Sherlock nodded, staring hard at the door. "Yes, I think so."

"Well. What are we waiting for?" John tried to load his question with bravado, not wanting Sherlock to know how much he dreaded losing him.

Grasping John's hand, Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated. He reached out and grasped the doorknob, pulling the door open. The light behind the door shone so brightly, John couldn't see what they were stepping into. He blindly followed Sherlock and the light swallowed them both up.

Sherlock hadn't noticed the strange sigil on the doorknob. Nor had either of them been aware of the two dark forms that stood off in the distance, watching them. As they disappeared through the door, Mary turned to Moriarty and smiled lazily.

"Where did you send them?"

"Right back where they came from." Chuckled Moriarty. "Only I made their position a little more... inconvenient. With Sherlock's power drained, I'd like to see them escape from the trap I laid out."

They both laughed darkly and then dissolved in a swirl of shadows, returning to the Between to report to Magnussen.

Sherlock and John stepped out of their dream and into oncoming traffic. The bright light of a truck barreling towards them and the blare of a horn roused them from their dazed state. Sherlock gave a sharp yank to John's wrist and they both rolled to the curb just in time. John felt a blast of air as the truck missed him by millimeters and heard angry cursing from the driver's open window.

It was daytime and the streets and sidewalks were busy with traffic and pedestrians. John and Sherlock stood, surveying their surroundings.

"This isn't Italy." John pointed out, squinting at the horizon to pick out recognizable landmarks.

"No, it isn't." Sherlock said grimly.

"We're still in London, Sherlock. How are we still in London?"

"I don't know what went wrong. I was so sure this was our way out." Sherlock rubbed his hand over the compass tattoo.

"Maybe we need to try again?"

"I can't, not right now." Sherlock said despairingly. "My energy is sapped from fighting off those creatures."

"Is that going to happen every time we go dream-walking?"

"There's a very good chance, yes."

"So. I guess we're grounded for the day. Unless you want to try conventional travel?"

Sherlock scrubbed at his face and sighed. "Let me recover for a moment and then we can talk about our options."

"Fair enough." John grimaced, but tried to hide the expression from Sherlock.  
"What is it?" Sherlock went on instant alert.

"Nothing, nothing." John waved his hands impatiently. "My back's just a little sore."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Turn around, let me see."

"It's nothing, Sherlock."

"Turn around."

Giving up, John turned and Sherlock sucked in a breath. "This isn't nothing."

Craning his head, John tried to see what Sherlock was upset over. "It's just from those things trying to get at me... it's not that bad, is it?"

"You've got spots of blood everywhere, John. I think they've scratched you pretty good."

"Ah, well, that would explain why it stings so badly."

"I guess this confirms that what happens to us in the dreamworld transfers over to waking life." Sherlock said grimly. "We've got to get you cleaned up."

"To another hotel, then?"

"No. We need supplies, and I should check your gunshot wound, as well. A hotel isn't going to have what I need."

"What, then?"

Sherlock looked past John and nodded down the street. "There, I think."

John followed Sherlock's gaze and laughed. "A hospital? Have you forgotten we're on the run?"

"Trust me." Sherlock grasped John's hand again and pulled him down the street towards the hospital.

Lestrade and Sally gulped down sandwiches and sodas as they went through the evidence they had for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"We've hit a dead end." Lestrade moaned. "No sign of them anywhere. That tip about the hotel proved useless - their room was empty. Where do you suggest we go now?"

"They can't have vanished off the face of the earth." Sally pointed out.

"No. Might have flown off it, though."

Sally rolled her eyes. "Drop it, Greg. You keep talking about guys with giant wings, they're going to put you on medical leave."

Greg rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "I know, I know. This case is just frustrating me. I still feel like we're missing something."

"When you hear hoofbeats, don't think zebras." Sally cautioned. "This isn't the first time one of our own's gone rogue. It's our job to stop that."

A young constable poked her head in to Lestrade's office and nodded at the blinking phone on his desk. "Sir? Phone call for you." 

Nodding thanks, Lestrade picked up the receiver. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade."

The voice on the line was dark and syrupy. She began speaking without introducing herself. "Detective. I believe you are looking for two men in connection with the murder of one of your own? I think you'll be interested to know that I've just seen them entering St. Thomas' not more than five minutes ago."

The caller disconnected abruptly, leaving Lestrade asking questions to empty air. He slammed down the receiver and swore.

"Some lady claiming she saw John and our mystery man going into St. Thomas', but I don't know how trustworthy the tip is."

Sally was already rising to her feet and shrugging into her blazer. "No stone left unturned, eh, boss?"

"Yeah, you're right. Let's go."

"We're going to get caught." John hissed from his perch on an exam table.

"Relax." Sherlock, wearing a pair of purloined scrubs and a stolen ID tag, pawed through the cabinets and gathered up disinfectant, cotton balls, gauze bandages, and other accoutrements for examining John's wounds. "And off with that shirt."

John eyed the closed door of the exam room apprehensively, but stripped off his shirt and allowed Sherlock to tend to the scratches and bites on his back. "How do they look?"

"Superficial, mostly. Thankfully. This'll sting." Sherlock began applying disinfectant and John swore loudly as the wounds burned.

"Where do we go after this?" John asked, trying to distract himself.

"Food, for one thing. We both need to keep up strength. After that... I was thinking we might try to get a car."

"Thought that was unwise?"

"It is. But obviously the dream-walking did not go well. I want to try again... but there's a very good chance it won't work, even after I've got my strength back." Sherlock applied antiseptic cream to John's wounds, then moved to concentrate on his shoulder.

The gunshot wound looked vastly improved, so Sherlock quickly cleaned it and applied a fresh bandage. They'd dumped their bags in the corner of the exam room and now John hopped from the exam table and rummaged for a fresh shirt.

"At this rate, I'm going to have to go clothes shopping." He quipped, tossing his bloodied shirt in the trash can.

Sherlock's lips twitched, but he still looked as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"You said something about food?" John asked. "I'm starving. Maybe we can talk strategy while we eat?"

Sherlock nodded and they gathered their bags. They slipped into the hallway, looking both ways to ascertain no one was looking. Sherlock discarded his scrubs on the way out and they'd just reached the elevator when they heard a voice call out behind them.

"Hey!" A young doctor had spotted their retreating figures. "You there, what are you doing?"

Sherlock pretended not to hear the doctor and pressed the elevator button again. The young doctor had been waylaid by two figures who were now talking to him. John glanced back and then did a double take and poked Sherlock with his elbow.

"It's Lestrade and Donovan!" John hissed.

The doctor was now gesturing down the hall at the two of them. Sherlock glanced around and pushed John ahead of him.

"Stairs. Now." He hissed.

As they pushed into the emergency stairwell, triggering a loud alarm to start wailing through the hospital building, Lestrade and Donovan took off down the hallway towards them, shouting for them to stop.


	14. Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock discover an ally. However, Magnussen is determined to thwart their success.

The pounding of their footsteps echoed in the stairwell as John and Sherlock headed downwards. Above them, the alarm still wailed and, behind that, they heard the shouts and footfalls that indicated they were being followed.

"How are we getting out of this one?" John panted, trying to keep up with Sherlock.

"No time to figure it out!" Sherlock snapped.

The stairwell emerged into a parking garage and Sherlock ducked to the right, tugging on John's arm and pulling him into a shadowed portion of the garage.

"The last time I was in a parking garage, it did not go well for me." John quipped. "Do you feel like we're just running in circles?"

Sherlock scowled. "I feel like there's someone out there purposely making things difficult for us. And I can probably guess who it is. There are powerful entities, John, who would suffer greatly if I succeed in my tasks."

"So they're trying to stop us... what do we do?"

Sherlock pulled John behind a parked sedan and they both ducked just as the door to the stairwell burst open and Lestrade and Donovan emerged, guns drawn.

"For now... don't make a sound." Sherlock whispered.

"They could be anywhere." Sally complained, turning to sweep the entire garage.

"We've got to take this strategically." Lestrade said. "You go to the left, check those sections over there. I'll head this way."

The parking garage was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Lestrade crept forward, squinting into the shadows and listening for the sound of anything amiss.

He heard the rustle of movement too late to block the hand that clamped over his mouth and pulled him backwards.

Sherlock and John held their breath as Lestrade surveyed the area. He drew close to the car they were hiding behind. Suddenly, John darted forward. Sherlock moved to grab him, but it was too late. In one swift movement, John had covered Lestrade's mouth with his hand and pulled him back. A short struggle ensued, followed by the clatter of Lestrade's gun as it fell to the ground and skittered under a car.

"Stop...struggling..." John hissed. "I'm not going to hurt you, Greg. It's me, you've known me for _years_. I just want to talk."

Lestrade grew still and John loosened his grip a little. "Are you going to shout if I take my hand away?"

Lestrade shook his head.

"If you alert Sally where we are, I won't hesitate to knock you out." John warned.

With a massive heave of his body, Lestrade broke John's grip and whipped around, glaring. Voice barely above a whisper, he growled, "What the hell do you think you're doing, Watson?"

John held up his hands and backed up a couple of steps. "Greg, please hear me out. I didn't do what they said I did."

"I saw it with my own eyes!" Lestrade looked hurt. "How... how could you do that, John? I trusted you!"

"Look, I know it doesn't make sense and God knows, I don't know how to explain it, but I didn't kill Hope... I'm not that kind of person."

Lestrade stared daggers at John. "Why'd you run, then?"

Scrubbing a hand over his face, John sighed. "It's a really long story, Greg. Not one I'm prepared to share in the middle of a dark parking garage."

"Well, then, come in and share it there. Clear your name."

"You know it's not that easy. I've got something I need to do. Something _important_."

From somewhere in the dark, Sally's voice carried to them. "Greg! Anything?"

Lestrade and John locked eyes and a silent, angry exchange took place in the seconds their gazes connected. Finally, Greg turned and answered back. "Nothing, Sally. I think they might have found the exit."

He turned back to John, his jaw clenched. "Don't think this means I believe you. But let's just say I've seen some stuff that's making me doubt my own eyes. I need answers, John."

"I promise I'll give them to you." John said quickly. "But I can't right now."

They all heard Sally getting closer. Sherlock tugged at John's arm. "We've got to go."

Lestrade's eyes flicked to Sherlock and narrowed. "We need to talk about this, John."

"Soon, I promise." John insisted. "Please, just... trust me."

"I can't stop pursuing you, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I get it. You're doing your job. Just... give us a head start?"

Lestrade hesitated, then sighed and nodded. "Get out of here. Go!"

Without glancing back, Sherlock and John took off running towards the garage exit. Lestrade watched them go, then turned just as Sally rounded a corner. "No sign of them and I've dropped my gun under one of the cars."

Sally blew a strand of hair out of her eyes that had escaped her bun. "I just don't get how they're staying one step ahead of us!"

"Yeah, me neither...." Lestrade muttered, crouching down to retrieve his gun.

They kept to the backstreets and alleys as they moved through London. John had to ask Sherlock to stop several times while he caught his breath. His injuries and the frantic pace of the last few days were finally starting to catch up.

"We're getting nowhere." He panted as they rested against the brick wall of an alley.

"I know." Sherlock muttered. "We're both exhausted, getting thwarted at every turn. We've got to change locations and regroup a bit."

"How do you suggest we do that?"

"That might get us somewhere new." Sherlock nodded to the end of an alley where a compact, nondescript car was parked at the curb.

"We're stealing cars now?"

"Doing what needs to be done to survive." Sherlock insisted, pulling John after him and heading for the car.

"Some git left the keys in the ignition!" John exclaimed as they examined the vehicle.

"I know. I saw him do it." Sherlock said. "That's why I got the idea."

"So you seriously want to do this?"

"I want to get some distance from London and then try dream-walking again." Sherlock insisted. "This will give you a chance to sleep for a bit while I drive. Then maybe we can switch places and I can recover some of my energy."

"Do you actually know how to drive?"

"John, I've been around for awhile. Eternity can be boring. I know how to drive." Sherlock pulled open the car's passenger door and held it open for John.

After debating for a moment, John relented. "Oh, what's one more crime?"

He climbed inside and Sherlock went around to the driver's side and folded his lanky form behind the wheel. The car started easily and Sherlock was pleased to note a full tank of petrol. Checking to make sure they weren't being watched or followed, Sherlock pulled away from the curb and they took off towards the outskirts of London.

John leaned his head back as the scenery blurred around them. His eyes drifted closed and soon he fell into deep sleep.

"Once again, you have failed me." Magnussen stated softly, pacing in front of Mary and Moriarty, whose heads were bowed.

"I offer my apologies, My Lord." Moriarty said. "Sherlock is proving to be stronger than anticipated."

"Are you saying he is stronger than _you_ and all of my forces behind you?" Magnussen's eyes narrowed.

"No...no! Of course not...." Moriarty looked panicked, trying to find an answer that would appease Magnussen.

"Perhaps I need to take care of the problem myself." Magnussen mused. "Since you two seem to be so inept. I do believe it's time to separate Sherlock and John Watson."

Magnussen smiled darkly and drew a sigil in the air. It glowed briefly before he waved it away, sending its power out to do his bidding. "The two of you should take yourselves from my sight until I am feeling more magnanimous."

As he swept away from them, Moriarty and Mary slunk back into the darkness of the Between to lick their wounds and plot their next move.

John woke with a start. He didn't know what had jolted him from sleep, but now he was wide awake. But he was no longer in the car, speeding along the highway. He was sitting at the base of a tree in the middle of a forest. It was starting to get dark and wispy strands of fog hung low to the ground. John scrambled to his feet, surveying his surroundings.

"Sh-Sherlock?" He called, voice quavering.

The only answer that came back was the distant howl of an unknown animal. John shivered and rubbed his arms to generate some warmth. He turned around, trying to orient himself, but every direction he turned, there were more trees. From behind him, he heard rustling. He turned just in time to see a Hellhound emerge from beneath a patch of brush, its shadowy form growing larger and larger. Its eyes glowed and it growled ominously.

"Shit." John breathed.

He tensed his body and the Hellhound did the same. At almost the same moment, they both moved, John taking off at breakneck speed into the trees, the hound pursuing him. He felt hot breath on his ankles and the snap of fangs trying to gain purchase. John put on a burst of speed and drew away from the slavering animal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw more Hellhounds emerging and taking up the chase. He zigzagged between trees, leaping over rocks. His chest burned as he pushed himself harder.

John didn't have time to stop when he burst out from the forest that ended in a sudden, dark chasm with icy water running below. His body hung in midair for what seemed like a full second before he was falling. The Hellhounds stopped at the edge of the chasm and watched John fall before disappearing into puffs of smoke.

John flailed his arms and screamed as he fell, the air tearing at his clothes. When he hit the water it was like hitting a mirror, shattering the glass surface into a million pieces. His body sunk like a rock into the frigid waters and his mind grew blank as he lost consciousness.


	15. Deluge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to find John after the aftermath of the car accident.

Sherlock's mind palace was flooded. He moved around the library, frantically checking for cracks in the wall, any escape whatsoever. But the room has sealed itself off. Sherlock screamed in rage and banged on the walls, but still the water rose up around his knees.

Thoughts jumbled and panicked, Sherlock turned around and came face to face with Victor. His skin was flaking off, revealing a patch of white bone at his cheek. He grabbed Sherlock's wrists and squeezed tightly, preternaturally strong for someone so obviously dead.

"Bleed with me, Sherlock." Victor hissed, and the blood began to pour from his mouth and mix with the water below, turning it into a swirl of viscous black liquid.

"No...no...." Sherlock moaned, trying to pull his wrists free. "You're not real! YOU'RE NOT REAL!"

Sherlock screamed the last line, putting all his strength into his struggles. He ripped his wrist free from Victor and fell backward, into the swirling black water.

He opened his eyes to find himself underwater and trapped in the car. His lungs burned as he fumbled at his seatbelt and freed himself. He floated in the water for a moment, before bunching his knees to his chest and kicking the side window with all his strength. He grabbed hold of the steering wheel to steady himself and kicked again. The glass cracked infinitesimally and Sherlock kicked once more. Again, and once again, until the glass broke fully. He cleared the jagged edges and pulled his body through the window, following the weak sunlight that shone above him. He emerged from the water gasping, cold, blessed air flooding into his lungs. 

"John!" His voice was hoarse from holding his breath. "John!"

The only sound that greeted him was the lapping of water as he bobbed the surface of an icy lake. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, concentrating on his ever-present connection with John. When he opened his eyes, the glowing thread between them was visible. But it was far dimmer than usual, and pulsed only faintly. The thread stretched away from Sherlock and down, into the depths of the lake. Sherlock took a deep breath, then dove beneath the surface again, following the dim glow of the thread. Lungs protesting and muscles aching, he glimpsed the outline of a body floating in the water. Sherlock gathered his power and used the tattoos curling around his arms. He shot dark tendrils towards John's body, wrapping him tightly and pulling him closer. Sherlock gripped John underneath his arms and used his legs to propel them both up. He broke the surface and swum swiftly towards the nearby shore. He pulled John's body to land and immediately rested his head against John's chest, listening for the sound of breathing. He heard a faint heartbeat, but John's chest did not rise. Sherlock tipped John's head back and pressed their lips together, exhaling air and expanding John's lungs. Placing his hands on John's chest, Sherlock began to pump, counting silently. Then he breathed for John once more. He continued this cycle, his thoughts growing more and more panicked at John's unresponsiveness.

John came back to him all at once, spewing brackish water and gulping lungfuls of air. He sat up and coughed, throwing up more water and the contents of his stomach. Sherlock fluttered around him, unsure of what to do. Finally, John gave a shuddering breath and turned red-rimmed eyes to Sherlock.

"W-what happened? Where were you?" His voice was accusing.

"I... I don't know." Sherlock sunk back on his heels. "One minute I was driving and you were sleeping and the next...."

Teeth beginning to chatter, John clutched his arms around himself and shivered. "I woke up in the forest surrounded by hellhounds. And then I was falling and...."

He broke off and turned his face away to hide his anguish. Sherlock rushed forward, but hesitated momentarily before gently laying his hands on John's shoulders. John let out a broken sob and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, burying his face in his shoulder.

They stood there as the cloudy sky spit out sporadic rain drops and their bodies grew chill from being soaked to the bone. Sherlock murmured apologies and comfort into John's hair as they clung to each other like drowning men.

"It was trickery," Sherlock muttered. "I know who was behind it. I'm sorry, John... I'm so sorry. I knew it was dangerous to travel that way, but I did not know it would put you in such peril."

John pulled away and wiped his face, sniffing loudly. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to get so upset. I think I'm just... tired. And scared."

"You're not alone." Sherlock laughed bitterly. "You're also shivering."

"I'm fucking freezing!" John returned Sherlock's laugh. "What do we do now?"

"The car's gone." Sherlock sighed. "And I don't dare try dream-walking at half strength."

John looked up towards the embankment, beyond which lay the road. Cars passed at steady frequency. "Hitchhike?"

"Do you think it's safe?"

"No, but neither is anything else."

Sherlock nodded and stood unsteadily, holding out a hand to help John to his feet. Stumbling and falling several times, they scaled the embankment and emerged on the highway.

"You look like shit." John pointed out as he stuck out a thumb.

"Says the man who just threw up an entire lake."

"Touché."

They were frozen to the core by the time an old man driving an aged Ford Escort pulled to the shoulder and beckoned them in. The man introduced himself as Fred and, other than a squinting stare that lasted a beat too long, he didn't question them as they climbed into the backseat. Instead, he cranked up the heater to high and asked where they were heading.

"Anywhere." Sherlock said, feeling the warmth begin to seep into his bones. "Anywhere with a hotel."

"Sherlock." John hissed, once Fred turned his attention back to driving. "We've lost everything. We don't even have any money."

"I know. I'll... figure something out."

The ride was a quiet one, although both Sherlock and John were too paranoid to try falling asleep. Fred eventually pulled into a small suburb and let them out near a run-down hotel on the outskirts of town. He waved good-bye and continued on his journey while Sherlock and John turned to survey the hotel.

"If I can get us a room, we can try dream-walking after we've rested." Sherlock suggested.

"So, we're skipping out on the bill."

"What other choice do we have?"

"You're right, I know you're right."

Luckily the hotel was in need of business, so Sherlock managed to talk his way into a room without presenting I.D. or a credit card. The room wasn't exactly a penthouse suite, but it had a bed and a shower and that was all that mattered to John. They both peeled off their soaked clothes and showered together, too tired to act on any urges. Afterwards, they fell into bed together and immediately fell asleep, John curled around Sherlock's body, their legs and arms tangled together and they held each other close, just in case.

Sherlock, it turned out, had no qualms with stealing if it was the only way to survive. He disappeared before John woke and returned with an assortment of breakfast choices just as John was blinking himself awake.

"Where'd you get all that?" John said, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"Err... acquired it." Sherlock mumbled, dumping the food on the small table in the middle of the room and snagging a croissant for himself.

"Oh, hell. We're both wanted for murder, anyway, might as well throw in some theft, too." John sighed.

He pulled on his now dry clothes that still smelled slightly of lake water and padded over to select his own breakfast.

"What's the plan?" John asked, biting into a bagel he'd just slathered with cream cheese.

"Dream-walking, again." Sherlock said decisively.

"Do you think it will get us anywhere?"

Sherlock frowned. "It's got the be the solution."

"And if it isn't?"

"We'll try this once more... if it doesn't work, we'll fly."

"Excuse me?"

"On an airplane, of course. My wings wouldn't carry us both that far."

"After what we just went through in a car, you'd want to get on an airplane?"

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"No." John scowled. "Okay, we'll do it this way, then."

Sherlock cleaned off the table of their breakfast remnants and then stretched out on the bed. "Come and lay down with me. We'll be more comfortable this way."

John needed no other prompting. He laid down beside Sherlock and took hold of his hand. They both covered the compass tattoo and Sherlock closed his eyes in concentration.

When they opened their eyes, they were standing in the doorway of a hospital ward. Across the ward stood another door - their escape route. Old-fashioned hospital beds lined the ward and in each bed was a sleeping child. John thought that this didn't look so scary, but when he turned to Sherlock, he found his face drawn and pale.

"What is it?" John asked, touching Sherlock's arm.

"These are all the children whose souls I've taken over the years." Sherlock whispered. "I recognize them."

"That's not so scary, then? Right?"

"Maybe." Sherlock sounded unconvinced.

Still holding hands, they started across the ward, footsteps light. They'd only gone a few steps when one of the children sat up and turned a blank-eyed stare to Sherlock. As they passed each bed, the children all sat up. Sherlock was shaking now and John tugged at his hand to get him to move faster.

The children were getting out of bed now and walking towards them in a shuffle. A little girl nearest Sherlock opened her mouth and a terrible, creaking voice emerged. "You killed us."

The others followed, their voices blending into one massive sound. "You killed us. You killed us. You killed us."

John pulled at Sherlock's sleeve to urge him to go faster, but the children were too quick. They converged, picking at their clothes and pinching their skin, all while chanting the same thing over and over.

"Come on, Sherlock!" John pushed through the crowd.

Sherlock's eyes were wide and his breath was coming in quick, panicked gasps. His hand slipped out of John's and he was dragged into the crowd with one yelped "No!"

John pushed through after Sherlock, shoving little boys and girls out of the way. They ignored him, preferring to torment Sherlock, who lay curled in a ball, moaning. John tried to get him to respond, but he finally had to grab him under his arms and pull him across the floor. He kicked away the massing children until they arrived at the door.

"Sherlock, I need your help." John panted.

The children were still following, though the kicking had discouraged some of them. John fended them off while he tried to rouse Sherlock, but Sherlock had fallen into what resembled a catatonic state. John grasped him firmly to his chest and hauled him to his feed. He offered up a quick prayer, though he wasn't exactly sure to whom he was praying, and then grasped the doorknob of the exit door.

"Italy. Italy. Italy." John said. "Sherlock, think of Italy."

He pushed open the door and stepped through, dragging Sherlock with him and leaving behind a thronging horde of creepy children.


	16. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trauma of dream-walking drives Sherlock deep into his mind palace and John must venture inside to bring him back to himself.

Warm water lapped over John's feet. He moaned and fisted his hands, coming away with a handful of sand. Squinting his eyes open, he found himself staring into an azure sky, the sun shining brightly. Overhead a bird wheeled in the sky, soaring on outstretched wings.

John sat up and found himself on a deserted stretch of beach. In front of him, the azure water lapped lazily up the sand. Behind, a sheer cliff stretched up and transformed into row upon row of rustic buildings. The warm, Mediterranean climate told John they had successfully arrived in Italy. Glancing around, John spotted Sherlock's body a few feet away, crumpled in the sand. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees.

John rolled Sherlock over and relief flooded him when he checked for signs of life and found them. Sherlock's eyes were closed, as though in sleep.

"Sherlock," John prompted, patting his face. "Sherlock, we're here. We've made it."

No response met him. Though Sherlock appeared uninjured and alive, he would not respond to anything John tried. John sat back on his haunches, frustration and helplessness threatening to overtake him.

One of the bags they'd carried had survived the trip through dream-walking. It now lay beside Sherlock's body and John pulled it to him, thinking there could be something inside that might help him. But all he found inside were neatly folded clothes and a small amount of cash. Feeling in pockets, John pulled out several fake I.D. cards and, much to his relief, a slim black mobile. He thumbed it open and was relieved to find the battery full and reception decent.

Then came the dilemma: who to call? The only contact listed was Molly, but John didn't think she could help from so far away. There were only a few phone numbers John had committed to memory and, realizing it was time, he punched in one of them. The ringing on the line sounded distant, as did the voice who picked up after a few seconds of waiting.

"Greg? It's me, John. Listen... I can't explain everything over the phone, but if you still want to take me in, this whole mess is almost over. I'm in Italy... presumably somewhere near Basilicata. No, I _can't_ explain how I got here in such a short amount of time. Come and get me if you still want me. Otherwise I'm going to take care of my business and disappear after this."

John ended the phone call, satisfied that Lestrade would make any attempt to get to him. Though he didn't relish the thought of spending life in prison, he also knew he couldn't spend his life on the run. If Sherlock completed his quest, he would be alone, with no idea how to proceed. And if Sherlock didn't make good on the prophecy... John didn't like to think about that.

The waves lapped nearer and John knew the tide must be coming in. With a great deal of effort, he managed to drag Sherlock's prone body up the beach and prop him against the cliff face. Panting, John settled beside him, on his knees, and once more tried to rouse his companion. He cupped his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him forward and immediately snatched his hand away when he felt a tingling sensation on his palm. Narrowing his eyes, he grasped Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him forward. His head lolled toward John, exposing the back of his neck and the lock tattoo etched upon it. John's lips parted as a puzzle piece clicked in his mind. He held out his right hand, eyeing the key-shaped birthmark on his wrist.

"No...." He breathed. "It couldn't be."

As if in response to his doubt, the golden thread that linked Sherlock and John glowed once, brightly, a reminder that their souls had been tied together since the night of John's unconventional birth. It disappeared once more, but John took it as a sign. He breathed deeply and tried to clear his mind, then laid his right hand over the lock tattoo. His palm tingled again and the tingling grew more insistent. John closed his eyes and tried not to rip his hand away as the tingling turned to a burning, his palm blazing hot as though he'd plunged it into a fire. The flames were surely about to consume him, leaving behind a charred corpse. John threw back his head and screamed as the heat engulfed him.

Just as quickly as it began, the fire died down and blessed coolness washed over John. He opened his eyes, expecting to find the beach - and Sherlock - as it had been.

John stood, alone, in the middle of a grand foyer. Staircases on either side of him curved up, leading to a balcony lined with doors. There were more doors that led off in all directions on the ground floor, as well. John turned, observing his surroundings and feeling wholly confused. He crossed over to the large front door and tugged it open. Beyond stretched an impenetrable darkness that made John's stomach twist into knots. He shut the door, preferring not to discover what might lay out there in the dark, waiting for him.

He began opening doors on the ground floor. The first room greeted him with a verdant grove of grass, blue sky overhead, wind blowing softly through the trees. It beckoned to John, urging him to stretch out on the grass and count clouds as they drifted by. John almost succumbed to the temptation, but after a few minutes of staring longingly, he shook his head and shut the door.

The next door he opened left John feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. He stood just outside, staring into the familiar contours of his kitchen. His dad sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a newspaper and cracking jokes. At the stove, his....

John sucked in a deep breath and braced himself against the door. His mother, young and vibrant, stood at the stove, a blonde baby balanced on her hip. She turned to smile at Cal occasionally, her eyes shining with love. John squeezed his eyes shut, the pain almost too great for him to bear. He thought about charging into the room, joining his family, and staying there forever, but he knew that this scene didn't exist beyond whatever hallucination this was. He forced himself to step back and click the door shut quietly. Then he pressed his forehead against the door and simply stood there, breathing in and out, until the longing receded enough to allow him to move ahead once more.

He chose the stairs this time, hoping he would find something useful on the second floor. When he reached the top, he saw a figure leaning against the banister. The thin man had golden curls flopping over his forehead and eager, shining eyes. When he saw John, he pushed away from the banister and drew near.

"You've got to help him." He urged, clasping John's hand in his. "He doesn't even know how far he's hidden himself away. You can find him, John. You can lead him out."

John opened his mouth to ask questions, but before he could, the man faded away in a wisp of smoke, leaving John alone once more. He began opening doors again. Each time he encountered some sort of domestic scene involving people he didn't recognize. An old woman and man rocked together on a porch swing. A grandmotherly type stood in a kitchen rolling pie crust. John checked these rooms quickly, shutting the doors and moving on as soon as he saw none of the people were Sherlock.

He ran out of doors. John stood in the middle of the hallway, looking both ways. At one end of the hall, a large, full-length mirror stood. John might have ignored it, might have considered it a normal mirror, but then it undulated once, as if beckoning him closer. John drew up to the mirror and put out his hand. The silver surface met his fingers and sucked his hand through. He pulled it back quickly, but just as quickly plunged his entire arm in, following it with his whole body.

John emerged into an enormous library. The book-covered walls seemed to stretch forever. In the middle of the room, bound naked and in chains to a chair, sat Sherlock. John let out a breath of relief and rushed to his side. Sherlock's body was covered in raised scratches, some oozing blood. John knelt beside the chair and Sherlock turned haunted eyes to him.

"You should leave me." Sherlock said, his voice raspy with emotion. "All I bring is death."

"Sherlock... oh... what have you done to yourself?" John knew Sherlock inflicted all of this on himself. He saw the pain turned inward, felt the guilt radiate off him in waves.

"All those children... I killed them all." Sherlock's body shook as he tried to hold back his tears.

"No, you didn't." John insisted, trying to figure out how to free Sherlock's body from the chains. "You helped them cross over after they died. That's different from actually killing them."

"I've done terrible things."

"Never." John stroked Sherlock's hair away from his face. "Never by choice."

"How can you look at me with anything but disgust?" Sherlock sobbed, turning his face away from John's.

"Because we are linked." John said, simply, and the golden threat between them pulsed once as if to remind them of what bound them together. "And because I've just been in the rooms of your mind, haven't I?"

John wasn't sure when he'd figured out what this place was, but suddenly he knew. All the rooms of happy, content people were Sherlock's memories of the people he'd taken. He recreated the happiest parts of their lives in this palace of his, trying to hold on to the positive side of their death.

"I've seen what's important to you, Sherlock. I know you are a good man. Those children... they were twisted by the darkness trying to stop us. Come back to me, Sherlock. Don't let the darkness win."

Desperate to unchain him, John grasped hold of the links and pulled. Beneath his hands, the chains shattered and fell away. Sherlock slumped towards him and John gathered him in his arms, pressing fervent kisses against his temple. Sherlock roused and sought out John's mouth, kissing him as a desperately as a man dying of thirst. He pressed the length of his body against John's, hands roaming over John's shoulders and down his chest to rest lightly at his waist.

John broke the kiss, tracing his fingers over one of the cuts Sherlock had made on his own skin. "How can I help you, Sherlock? How do I made it hurt less?"

Sherlock grabbed at his hand, pressing John's palm to his lips and nuzzling his face against it. "Take me apart, John Watson. Take me apart, so I can put myself back together again."

"Do you mean....?" John asked, unsure, feeling the desire in his belly uncoil lazily like a snake.

Sherlock fisted John's shirt in his hands and pulled him to him. He took John's hand and guided it to his groin, brushing his fingers over the straining erection he found there. "Take me, John. I want this. I want you."

John swayed, his fingers curling around the base of Sherlock's cock. He pressed his face to Sherlock's neck and moaned as he lapped at the skin there. Sherlock fumbled at John's clothes, fingers clumsy at the buttons of his shirt. John drew back and pulled the shirt over his head. He slipped out of his trousers and pants, kicking them all into a pile. His own erection, flushed and leaking, bobbed slightly as he stood in front of Sherlock, taking in his beauty and marveling over the supernatural creature who marked him as his own.

John reached out a hand and touched one of the cuts on Sherlock's skin. He gasped as, at his touch, the cut faded, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin. He leaned towards Sherlock, pressing him back in his chair, and placed a gentle kiss on another of the cuts. It, too, vanished. Sherlock watched him, eyes shining and desperate. His long, graceful fingers grasped John's waist and steadied him as John kissed each cut on Sherlock's arms, healing them with only his touch.

"See what you do to me." Sherlock said, his voice husky and slurred as though just the taste of John made him drunk. "You make me whole again."

John aimed a grin at Sherlock, bracing his arms against the back of the chair on either side of Sherlock. He lowered his hips until he pressed the length of him to Sherlock, drawing a groan from his throat. Their cocks brushed against each other as John moved to lick and suck his way along Sherlock's collarbone. He moved lower, capturing Sherlock's nipple between his teeth and nipping lightly. Sherlock whimpered and his hands flew to John's hair, fisting through the silken strands of gold and tugging lightly. John continued downwards, tracing the contour of each bone and muscle with his tongue. He licked a line of saliva over Sherlock's ribcage and then blew lightly on it, chilling the skin and raising goose pimples. The noises Sherlock was making drove John wild; his breath came out in little pants and snuffles, accompanied by moans and whimpers. John splayed his hands across Sherlock's chest, his thumbs slotting into the groove of his ribs. He bent to swirl his tongue around Sherlock's bellybutton, dipping into the depths and causing Sherlock to arch his back. John raked his fingers down the length of Sherlock's body, cupping the swell of his buttocks and kneading the soft flesh between his fingers. He nuzzled the hair at the base of Sherlock's cock, mouthing against the sensitive skin of his groin. He used his tongue to trace the underside of Sherlock's cock and then wrapped his lips around the flushed head, delighting in the warble of sound that escaped Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock thrust his hips higher and John swallowed another inch, flattening his tongue and scraping it over the shaft. He hollowed his cheeks and took even more length in his mouth. His own cock throbbed between his legs, aching for release. John moved his hand from Sherlock's ass to the small, pink bud of his opening. As he bobbed his head over Sherlock's cock he pressed one finger into Sherlock, who tossed his head back and groaned out a long string of wordless pleasure. His body gripped at John's finger as he slowly withdrew it and then settled it in even deeper. He grazed Sherlock's prostate, causing him to yelp and jut his hips higher, almost choking John as he took the whole of Sherlock's shaft in his mouth.

"Ooooh," Sherlock moaned, shudders running through his body. "Fuck.... John... I can't...."

John hummed lightly, sending vibrations through Sherlock's cock and causing him to lose his words again. John worked a second finger into his ass, stroking in time to Sherlock's thrusts. As he drew closer to climax, Sherlock's thrusts lost rhythm and became more desperate. John felt Sherlock's cock swell just as he heard him let out a long cry and streams of come splashed the back of John's throat. He swallowed every drop, coaxing Sherlock over the edge of his orgasm. As Sherlock's body relaxed, John withdrew his fingers and mouth. Sherlock, loose-limbed and covered in sweat, tugged John back to his mouth and kissed him, tasting his own saltiness on John's lips. His slim fingers wrapped around John's erection, brushing the leaking tip with his thumb and stroking the length.

Sherlock broke the kiss, moving his mouth to John's ear, "Come for me, John."

Groaning, John thrust into Sherlock's hand with abandon, not caring to prolong anything. His hips undulated and Sherlock dragged his mouth over John's neck and along his shoulders, sucking and biting at the skin beneath his lips. His free hand traced the line of John's back, coming to rest at the small curve above his buttocks.

"Almost... there...." John panted, burying his fingers in Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock licked his tongue over John's nipple, flicking at it like a cat lapping up milk. John grunted and arched into Sherlock's hand, his cock spurting streams of come over his fingers and on his stomach as John's orgasm washed over him in waves. John's legs buckled and he fell against Sherlock, their limbs tangling together. They stayed like that, John's eyes squeezed shut as his breath returned to normal. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder and his fingers traced idly in circles on his back.

"I...." John's breath hitched; he felt unsure of the words he wanted to say, but they wouldn't stay inside anymore. "I love you, Sherlock. You're the missing piece of me that I didn't even know was gone, until you found me."

Sherlock raised his head, pulling back so he could meet John's gaze. He searched John's feature for any untruths, but found none. A beatific smile crossed his face as he brushed John's hair off his forehead.

"And I love you. You have saved me in so many ways, John Watson. Just by being alive, you have saved me."

They curled around each other, John pulling Sherlock into his lap and Sherlock wrapping himself around John as though he might never let go. The pain of the past few days faded into the background as they soothed each other with their lips and hands. Soon, though, John remembered the reality of where they were and he pulled back.

"We have to go back." He whispered. "We have to finish this."

Sherlock nodded, but burrowed his face into the crook of John's neck. "I know."

"Are you ready for what's to come?"

"No... but I will be."

Slowly, they untangled themselves from each other, unfolding their limbs and stretching away the stiffness in their muscles.

"So... how do I get out of your head?" John asked.

"How exactly did you get in?" Sherlock frowned, as though just realizing where they were.

John held up his hand with the key birthmark. "Let myself in through the backdoor." He indicated Sherlock's lock tattoo on his neck.

"I _knew_ it must do something!" Sherlock crowed, momentarily pleased at this new discovery. "Right... well, how about trying that again?"

John hesitated, not eager to go through the experience once more. But then he nodded and pressed his hand against Sherlock's tattoo. He cleared his mind and felt the tingling start again. This time, however, it was as though he plunged through ice water. He came out the other side shuddering with the cold.

He and Sherlock were still on the beach, though the sun hung much lower in the sky. Evening approached and the tide with it. They were fully clothed, but John knew the experience in Sherlock's mind had been real because his body felt loose and satisfied. Sherlock took in their surroundings, his brain mulling over possibilities.

"It's going to be dark soon." He said, standing up and brushing the sand from his clothes. "We need to find a place to stay. Tomorrow we'll head for the monastery."

John held his tongue and didn't tell Sherlock of the call he'd placed to Lestrade. He knew Greg couldn't reach them _too_ soon; by the time he arrived, the quest would be finished.

"What about our troublemakers?" John asked, thinking of the two demons who seemed to want to make their lives miserable.

Sherlock pulled a face. "They won't be able to reach us here, I don't think. This is holy ground, all of it. The closer we get to the monastery, the more protection we have."

"You sure?"

"No, but I _hope_."

Too tired to argue further, John and Sherlock trudged up the winding path that led into the city, hoping to find food and a bed, in that order.

Magnussen brooded in front of the fireplace. Sherlock had traveled beyond his reach, beyond the reach of his demons. Now the only thing left to do was wait.

Mary and Moriarty dangled, suspended from chains in the ceiling. Their bodies had been flayed bloody by Magnussen in a fit of rage. Now he paced in front of them, eyes burning dark.

"You've both failed me." He hissed. "But if Sherlock succeeds, your pain will end quickly because this, all of this, will cease to exist."

He rocked back on his heels. "But worry not, my loyal subjects. There is still a chance that Sherlock will fail to interpret the last of the prophecy. He still believes that it is his sacrifice to make... and that may very well be his undoing."

Magnussen chuckled softly and returned to stand in front of the fire. He gazed into the flames and stroked his beard as he waited for destiny to play its last hand.


	17. Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John fulfill the prophecy, but at what cost?

The Holy Monastery of St. John of the Cross was an unassuming, crumbling structure tucked high in the mountains above Basilicata. The only way to reach it was to hike in, unassisted by modern vehicles. It disguised itself among the trees and brush so that only those who knew to look for the ancient turrets and cracked steps leading up to the massive door overgrown with vines were able to find it. Many hikers blundered by, unaware the monastery even existed.

Sherlock and John struck out early that morning for the monastery. The hike was undertaken in silence, both too nervous of what the day would bring to talk of anything inconsequential. John's mind focused inward as he worried about what came afterwards. Life in prison for a murder he didn't commit was hard enough to accept, let alone a life without Sherlock. As for Sherlock's worries... John couldn't even hope to penetrate that complex mind as they climbed towards the end. John focused on his breathing as they climbed, focused on his awareness of the golden thread that bound him to Sherlock. He wondered what it would feel like after, how big of a hole the connection's absence would leave.

It took the better part of the day to reach the monastery. Emerging into a small clearing, Sherlock gestured to the corner of disintegrating stone that was the steps to the door.

"There." Sherlock whispered, pausing for a moment.

John hesitantly reached out a hand and touched Sherlock's arm. They'd never had time to stop and discuss what would happen next. The chaos they'd met at every turn prevented them from the conversations John would have liked to have with Sherlock. "Are you ready?"

"No." Sherlock's answer came out on a breath of laughter. "But in a way, I've been ready for this from the very beginning."

John felt a flash of jealousy for the many years and experiences that Sherlock had without him. He fought back that emotion, determined to ground himself in the present, and nodded. "Up we go, then."

A knock on the door produced no results, but they found it unlocked as they pushed it open. A shower of dust fell as the door creaked inward, the hinges rusty from long disuse. Beams of sunlight through high stained glass windows revealed swirling dust motes as they moved into the main prayer hall. The room was circular, with tiled floors and archways leading off to other rooms. The domed ceiling stretched above them at a dizzying height. John gaped up in open-mouthed wonder at the ornately painted ceiling - a mix of angels and saints among the clouds of heaven - turning around to take in the whole of it.

"John." Sherlock's voice broke his reverie as he laid a light hand on his wrist. He nodded towards one of the arched doorways, this one cast in shadow.

A slim man with thinning red hair emerged from the shadow, a hesitant smile on his face. He wore brown monk's robes and his blue eyes twinkled.

"You're the one, aren't you?" The man's voice was soft and gentle. He came closer to where John and Sherlock stood. "The one Miss Hooper contacted me about?"

Sherlock relaxed at the mention of Molly's name. He nodded and stepped forward, hand extended.

"I'm Sherlock. This is my companion, John. You are....?"

The man took Sherlock's hand in both of his and smiled even more. "I'm Brother Mycroft. We have been waiting for a very long time for you, Sherlock."

John felt a lump form in his throat. This was all too real and he fought the urge to turn and run from the monastery.

"I believe you have something of great importance here?" Sherlock asked.

"Indeed, indeed." Brother Mycroft nodded, letting go of Sherlock's hand. "Please, follow me."

He led them to the back of the prayer hall, to a plain, wooden door that opened easily after he slipped an ornate key in the lock. Inside was a small, unadorned room with no windows. The only item in the room lay in a glass case at its center. Sherlock approached, holding his breath.

The dagger had been well-cared for, but showed obvious signs of great age. Its hilt was a burnished bronze covered in scrollwork that had turned black over the centuries. The blade looked razor-sharp, despite the slight discoloration of age. It lay on a pillow of black velvet beneath the glass case. Sherlock placed his hand on the case and felt a hum of power within. He turned back to Brother Mycroft.

"What now?"

The monk bit his lip and looked nervous. "A sacrifice must be made, as I thought you were aware?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock waved his words away irritably. "But how do I do it? Do I just pick up the dagger and slit my throat?"

Both John and Mycroft winced at his words. "Sherlock," John moaned. "A little decorum?"

"This is what we're here to do, John." Sherlock snapped, glaring at him.

"There is little instruction on how the sacrifice is performed." Brother Mycroft broke in, nervously. "It has to take place in the center of the prayer hall and I have to bless the blade. That's all I know."

Sherlock blinked in acknowledgement and turned back to the glass case, lifting the lid and taking hold of the dagger's hilt. It was heavier than he expected and he turned it in his hands, running fingers across the scrollwork.

"Let's get this over with." He muttered, turning back to John and Mycroft and heading for the door to the prayer hall.

John grabbed his shoulder as he brushed roughly past. "Sherlock... don't you want to... I don't know, shouldn't we say something to each other?"

Sherlock stopped and turned his eyes to John's hand on his shoulder. They were hooded and dark, not showing any emotion behind them. After a few seconds, Sherlock shook his head minutely. "We both know what I have to do, John. No use prolonging it."

Had Sherlock taken the dagger and driven it into John's heart, it wouldn't have hurt any more than being dismissed by him so quickly. John felt himself close up tightly and he swallowed, hard. Stepping back, he gestured to the door. "Right. After you, then."

As Sherlock swept through the door, John caught the scent of him and thought he might pass out from his longing for more time. Why were they always running out of time?

"You may be of some use, after all." Magnussen hissed in Moriarty's ear.

The incantation he worked caused the fire in the fireplace to blaze a sickly green. Mary and Moriarty, bodies broken and battered, still hung from the ceiling. Magnussen grinned maniacally as he drew a black dagger across Moriarty's throat and caught his blood in a silver goblet. Turning to Mary, he did the same. What remained of their twisted souls fled the mangled bodies, disappearing in a scream of black smoke and the smell of brimstone.

Bringing the goblet to his lips, Magnussen let the hot gush of blood flow down his throat as he smiled and imagined Italy.

John thought he might cry. Felt the tears pricking the corner of his eyes, felt the emotion rising in his chest. He wanted to say something, say so many things. Sherlock walked to the center of the prayer hall and stood, as if unsure of how to begin.

"There is a blessing." Mycroft began, stepping towards Sherlock. "I'll need to say it over the dagger before you... uh... before the sacrifice."

Sherlock nodded wordlessly and handed the dagger to Mycroft, seeming relieved to be rid of its weight, even for a few moments.

Brother Mycroft walked closer to the monastery's entrance until he stood in one of the largest sunbeams cast through an elaborate stained glass window that depicted an angel impaled on a spear of light. The acidic taste of disgust flooded the back of John's throat and he had to close his eyes to will back the urge to vomit. Mycroft held the dagger above him and began to intone a blessing in Latin.

As soon as he opened his mouth, John knew something was wrong. Mycroft's body was gripped in a spasm of pain as black smoke billowed from inside him and emerged from all orifices. Sherlock cried out in alarm. As if of their own volition, his wings stretched out behind him and his eyes turned red. His demonic visage emerged, piece by piece, as the black smoke swirled around him. The stained glass windows shattered, spraying glass in all directions and causing John to take cover behind one of the prayer benches. Mycroft clutched the dagger tightly and backed away. He looked pale and clammy and John wasn't sure how long he'd remain upright.

Magnussen, fully formed, stepped from the billowing smoke, a smug smile across his face. "Well, well, well. My little protégé, I have finally tracked you down."

Sherlock hissed and backed away from Magnussen. "How can you even be here? This is holy ground!"

"You are not the only one who knows about sacrifice, Sherlock." Magnussen's eyes darkened. "After all the kindness I've shown you...."

"Kindness? You call my enslavement _kindness_?" Sherlock half-laughed, half-sobbed. "It's too late to stop this, Magnussen. Your time is finished."

Magnussen snarled, his face transforming into a hellish, demonic form, as he launched himself at Sherlock. Rather than meeting his mad rush, Sherlock pushed past him, propelling his body away. "Brother Mycroft! Now!"

Mycroft seemed to come back to himself at Sherlock's cry and he stepped forward, grasping the blade of the dagger and throwing it blade over hilt towards Sherlock, who thrust his chest out to meet the blade.

Time slowed down. John saw Magnussen right himself and wheel around, eyes glowing. He would get to Sherlock before the dagger. John felt the thread between them glow brightly, humming. He knew what he had to do, knew what the prophecy meant. _Life's blood sets right what once was wrong._

John tensed his muscles and launched himself towards Sherlock. Just as Magnussen reached Sherlock and was about to snatch the dagger from the air, John collided with his body, sending him sprawling. The dagger hit its mark, burying itself deeply in John's back and piercing his heart. John heard the Sherlock's agonizing wail and felt strong arms catch him. He felt the golden thread between them grow bright and hot until it snapped, the connection finally severed. Sherlock lowered him to the floor and John sought out his face one last time, his vision growing to dim pinpricks of light. His hands wouldn't work properly as he tried to touch Sherlock's face. He was dimly aware of the streaks of red blood he left on Sherlock's pale skin.

"John!" Sherlock sobbed. "John, what have you done?"

John heaved one great breath, the pain at his center growing overwhelming. "I...." His voice wheezed out, barely audible. "I would follow you into hell, Sherlock."

As John's eyes closed and his lifeforce ebbed from him, a great howl rose up around them, tearing at their hair and clothes. Brother Mycroft lay sprawled on the floor as the wind whipped around them. Magnussen let out a mighty growl and tried to push against the wind, tried to attack Sherlock once more, and then his body disintegrated into dust and blew away. The wind picked up, stronger, tearing at Sherlock's wings. He howled as his wings ripped from his body. His skin boiled and crawled as his tattoos oozed off in a black puddle of sludge on the floor. He felt as though he was being torn apart from the inside out, but still he crouched protectively over John's lifeless body.

The storm lasted forever, or perhaps it was over in the blink of an eye. When Sherlock raised his tear-stained face, it was cooled by the breeze from outside. The roof had been torn from the monastery, the prayer hall left in rubble. Mycroft pulled himself to his feet and shuffled to them, the emotions on his face a mix of fear and awe.

"You banished the darkness." He whispered, kneeling next to Sherlock. "You've ushered in the time of light."

"I didn't." Sherlock said bitterly. "He did."

He nodded to John's dead body, a puddle of blood spreading beneath him from the dagger wound.

"I have to get the dagger out." Sherlock was suddenly seized with panic at the thought of the blade still buried in John's heart. "Help me, please, help me."

Mycroft silently helped Sherlock turn John's body and remove the dagger, then gently lay the body back on the floor. Sherlock smoothed John's hair over his forehead as he pressed his fist against his mouth, teeth biting into the skin to hold back the wails that threatened to rip from his chest. He squeezed his eyes closed at the pain and felt warm trickles down his face. Opening his eyes and pressing a finger to the warmth, his hands came away bloody; he was crying tears of blood. The dam inside him broke and Sherlock let out an unearthly screech loaded with all his pain and loss. He buried his face in John's neck and sobbed, brokenly, not caring of the mess he was making with his tears.

He did not notice the breeze picking up. Nor did he notice the glowing light that surrounded John. The light grew impossibly bright, causing Mycroft to stumble backwards, his hands up to shield his eyes. Sherlock did not feel the warmth that flowed through John's body, but his attention came back to the present when John's arms twitched beneath his hands.

He lifted his blood-stained face to look at John and was almost blinded from the white-hot light that burst from him as his body raised into the air. The light surrounded Sherlock, pulling them both together in an embrace. Just as quickly as the light surged, it died and John slumped back into Sherlock's arms. But this was not the lifeless body of a dead man. It was the limp, but breathing steadily, body of an unconscious John Watson. Sherlock supported his weight and looked up frantically at Brother Mycroft. "He's alive... but barely! We need medical attention!"

Before Mycroft could reply, someone stepped inside the prayer hall.

"Let me help." Greg Lestrade said, his face bespoke of a long journey with no rest. "I've got a satellite phone."

** One Week Later **

The world came back to John Watson in fits and starts. First the beeping of machines intruded on his peaceful dream, which involved being alone with Sherlock in the lush, green field of his mind palace. Then the rumble of voices kept tickling him awake. Finally, John opened his eyes and came back to the world. Even the dim light hurt his eyes at first and made him close them almost immediately. Slowly, he opened them again.

"H-hello?" His voice was dry and croaky. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than a drink of water.

The crumpled brown coat in the corner stirred to life and John realized it was Greg Lestrade, asleep in a chair.

"John." Greg stood up and rushed to his bedside. "Thought you'd never wake up, mate."

"Where....?" John's mind still hadn't caught up with what was going on. His chest hurt like a fireball had exploded inside it.

"Shh, it's okay. I'll explain everything. You're in a hospital in Rome. Do you remember what happened at the monastery?"

"I... stabbed...."

"You died, John." Greg's face looked drawn and tired. "It took a lot of pulling strings, but I got to the monastery just as it all went down. I watched it... can't say I understood any of it, but I saw what you did. What happened. You were dead, John."

"How?" John closed his eyes as the memories if sacrificing himself flooded back to him.

"I don't even know how you came back to us."

That one, little word pricked John's ears. "Us?"

"John." The whispered name was full of reverent joy as Sherlock stepped into the hospital room carrying a tray of cafeteria food. "You're awake."

All that mattered to John shrunk to one, solitary person: Sherlock. He wanted to rip the tubes and wires from himself and launch his body into Sherlock's embrace. Instead, he settled on a weak smile.

"Sherlock... you're still here...."

Sherlock shoved the tray of food at Lestrade and went to John, grasping his hands tightly. "Thanks to you. I've been given a second chance?"

"Wha-?" John had a hard time taking all the information in. He was too busy drinking in the sight of Sherlock, re-memorizing all the planes of his face.

Sherlock drew closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm human, John. Not just my heart, but all of me. Living, breathing human... no wings, no tattoos, no magical powers. I'm the same age I was when I became the god of Death. I've been given the gift of life, John. _You_ gave it to me, by sacrificing yourself."

Sherlock's breath hitched and he was crying. He buried his face against John's arm. "Don't you dare ever do anything like that again, John! I thought I'd lost you."

John brushed his hand over Sherlock's curls, his own tears falling freely. "I was meant to do it." He croaked. "I realized that at the last minute... it was always me, Sherlock. _Life's blood_."

Sherlock raised his face and brought John's hand to his lips, pressing a soggy kiss to his palm. "Molly thought so. I called her, told her the whole story and she said that was the last piece of the puzzle they could never figure out. You were the last piece, John. Without you, none of it could have happened."

"So it's done, then? We're safe?"

"I think so, yes." Sherlock answered. "Magnussen is gone and now that I'm human, I have no connection to the Between. We must assume the prophecy has come true and the age of light is upon us. All the demons of the Between have been vanquished."

John felt himself fading fast, his energy draining. But he had one more question that weighed heavily on him. He looked steadily at Lestrade. "You taking me away as soon as I'm recovered?"

Lestrade grinned and shook his head. "Nah. I told you, I saw what happened. And as soon as that evil bloke dissolved into dust, it was like blinders coming off. I remembered what _really_ happened. I know you didn't kill anyone, John. So does everyone else. Your name's clear and you'll be welcomed back to the force as soon as you're ready."

John's eyes wouldn't stay open for much longer. He returned his gaze to Sherlock, who watched him steadily. "We'll see. He murmured, stroking Sherlock's cheek. "We'll see."

In the end, John didn't return to the police force. He decided he'd had just about enough excitement and adventure to last him a lifetime. Instead, he chose to have adventures of the more sedate variety with Sherlock, in a small cottage in Sussex. They had so many years to make up for, so many things to learn about each other. John found contentment in simply waking up beside Sherlock every morning and falling asleep with his arms wrapped around him at night.

Although the golden thread that bound them had snapped in the monastery, John still felt it, in his heart, tying him to Sherlock Holmes for the rest of their natural lives. And that was something beautiful, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story! It's been a fun ride and I truly appreciate the support from all my loyal readers! You are all the best! If you enjoyed this story, be sure to check out [my other work](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartswitch/works) and subscribe to the ones that interest you! Or [find me on Tumblr](http://cleverwholigan.tumblr.com) and say "hi"!
> 
> Extra special thanks to my wifey, [TheGlitteryPotato/MrsDeGoey](http://theglitterypotato.tumblr.com) for the amazing artwork and, more importantly, the fantastic support she gave me throughout writing all of this. Without her, the story might not have ever finished. <3 <3 <3 I lubs your entire face, wifey.


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